


you could make a life outtakes (2018)

by youcouldmakealife



Series: ycmal outtakes [4]
Category: Original Work
Genre: F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-17
Updated: 2018-12-22
Packaged: 2019-03-06 04:24:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 76
Words: 58,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13403391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youcouldmakealife/pseuds/youcouldmakealife
Summary: A collection of snippets originally posted on tumblr based in the general universe presented inyou could make a lifeand its companion series. Canon and AU within, ranging from G-rated gen to explicit.





	1. Robbie/David, Georgie; uncomplicated (AU)

Robbie is so out of his damn league with David.

That was true with Georgie too, but Georgie was like — Robbie had over a year to grow on him. Robbie was his best friend before they were anything else. He has zero doubt that if they’d met at a party or something, Georgie would have taken a dozen people to bed before he fucked around with Robbie.

Robbie’s not being down on himself or anything, just realistic. People that look like Chaps or Georgie don’t go for guys like him, not without extenuating circumstances. With Georgie it was friendship. With Chaps it’s kind of that, but probably more like — Robbie’s obviously not going to snap a picture of him and David and leak it to the press or something. He’s down the hall when they’re on the road, and a quick drive away when they’re in town, when he isn’t ten feet away. Safety and convenience. 

It goes both ways, and even though Robbie’s said he’d never get involved with another teammate again, it isn’t like the thing with Georgie. Robbie’s not in love with him, Robbie’s not going to fall in love with him, and Chaps has this quiet place he goes, this distance that has Robbie thinking there’s a story, that Chaps is hung up on someone, that there’s somewhere in him Robbie can’t touch.

Makes two of them. Makes it doubly safe.

*

The day Robbie finds out Georgie’s coming to the Caps is the day he asks Chaps to fuck him. They’ve mostly exchanged handies, the most bro of sexual favors, with a couple blowjobs that made it pretty damn clear that Chaps had experience (and that said experience liked way harder suction than Robbie did, because kind of ow? Anyway Chaps let up as soon as Robbie mentioned it, so all good), but Robbie’s never been fucked by someone he didn’t have feelings for. Feels like a step too far.

Robbie doesn’t give a shit tonight. Feeling anything that isn’t complete dread and the competing urges to burst into fucking tears or go punch someone (front office for arranging this? Georgie the second he steps into view? Himself for still being this fucked up over Georgie?) sounds good.

Robbie thinks David’s more nervous than he is. That’s not exactly hard, because Robbie’s not like — he’s not anything, really.

“You sure?” Chaps asks. He’s asked that a lot. Enough that Robbie’s half thinking he wants Robbie to say no, wants an out. Robbie considers giving it to him — it’s fucked up to use Chaps for this, and it’s not like just fooling around won’t get him out of his head for a few minutes.

He doesn’t back out. Maybe that’s not fair of him, but Chaps seems to enjoy it enough, as far as Robbie can tell. He’s quiet, during, but he’s always quiet. He comes at least. Gentlemanly enough to offer a reach-around to get Robbie there too. So. 

Afterwards Robbie feels kind of hollowed out, which is about the best he can hope for.

“You know the guy who’s coming over from Cleveland?” Robbie says, staring at the ceiling.

“No?” Chaps says, overly literal. “You do, though, right?”

Robbie snorts.

“Yeah,” he says. “I know him.”

“Are you okay?” Chaps asks.

Robbie thinks about answering for a moment, but it’s not David’s problem. He’s not David’s problem. That’s kind of exactly the point.

“Yeah,” he says. “I’m fine.”

“Did I do anything —” Chaps says, sounding wary now.

“You were perfect,” Robbie says, and reaches out to pat David’s hip.


	2. Oleg, Maria,David; left behind

He’d been worried about leaving David. That sounds ridiculous, when he thinks it, but doesn’t make it less true. Heartsore about leaving a fanbase he’d had since his rookie season. Stressed about moving. A little hurt, and trying to suppress it, that the term and salary the Islanders offered to keep him were insultingly low. It would have been less offensive if they hadn’t offered him anything at all, rather than a token they knew he’d refuse.

And worried about leaving David. Of all the things to focus on.

Oleg isn’t surprised that David doesn’t want to stay with the Islanders. He isn’t unsurprised, exactly — if he’d been asked, before he talked to David, whether David would want to stay with the Islanders, he would have said yes without hesitation. But now that he’s thinking about it, thinking about what David said, the startled ‘not really’ when Oleg asked him if he wanted to stay, like he’d never thought about it before — he’s not surprised.

David never fit in on that team. Oleg’s not sure he’d fit in entirely anywhere — he’s brittle, too quiet in the room, too quick to blame others. It’s usually deserved, but he can’t hide it the way Oleg can, the way most of them can — yes, your goalie should have had that save, no, that forward shouldn’t have been in the crease for the deflection, but you don’t  _say_ that. You don’t let it show on your face. The media’s already saying it, the fans, management: they don’t need it from their teammates.

Part of that is age, Oleg thinks. David’s already better than he was in his first few years. But part of it lingers; the way David turns in on himself, the way he blames himself for things that aren’t his fault, blames himself when things are going badly despite him. Hockey’s a team sport, and Oleg’s sure David would agree if he said it, but he’s not sure David actively  _knows_ it.

And as teams go, the Islanders are a mess. They weren’t always that way, and Oleg doesn’t think that’s just wistful remembrance on his part. He doesn’t mean in the standings — they’ve never excelled there, at least not in the time he’s been with them, not for more than a season or two, always dipping just as soon as they’ve gathered hope that maybe they’ve made it out of bottom fourteen. But Oleg remembers when the room didn’t feel toxic the way it does now, when it didn’t dissolve into factions, or if it did, that the factions weren’t in opposition to one another. 

Oleg wondered sometimes if that was his fault, if it’d be different if there was another captain in place, if he was a better captain, but he knows, most of the time, that it’s toxic from the front office down, that there’s nothing he can do to lance the wound, to let the poison trickle out, to heal it.

David says he doesn’t want to stay, and that’s the moment Oleg realizes that he didn’t either, not really. The moment he makes peace with leaving, if not leaving David behind.

*

Oleg finds out David’s leaving the Islanders through a blistering article his agent sends him. Blistering towards David, and Oleg too, and Oleg wonders why on earth he sent it until he sees where David landed. 

Oleg usually avoids the media as much as possible, certainly when he isn’t obligated — and that’s a relief, knowing that the Capitals have their own captain, that the unpleasant duty of being the first line against the press is off his shoulders now — but he seeks out articles by the Washington press, ranging from optimistic about the moves to concerned about the ripples to the salary cap, to flatly unimpressed. None of it truly sinks in. None of it touches him.

“Are you going to take your face out of your phone any time today?” Maria asks him, which is the only thing that indicates how long Oleg’s been paging through article after article, somehow still surprised every time he sees David’s name beside his own.

“David’s going to Washington,” Oleg says.

Maria blinks. “He signed with the Capitals?” she asks.

Oleg nods.

“So he just coincidentally chose the same team?” Maria asks.

“I may have told him where I was planning to sign,” Oleg says.

“You may have,” Maria repeats. “Just to let him know, of course.”

“Well,” Oleg says. It wasn’t abnormal to tell him. David deserved to hear from him rather than the media. “We play well together,” he says, which might be a bit of a non sequitur, but not really.

“You do,” she agrees, then, “Yes, yes, your protege loves you,” laughing at him while he tries to bite back a smile.

“Of course he wants to play for a good team,” Oleg says, because while he may have had some impact, David wanted to play for a good team, and now he will. Oleg’s sure he’s smart enough to make a decision on the strength of career potential over anything else. “And Washington’s a good team.”

“You’ve said,” she says. He had, admittedly, followed her around the house mulling over the pros and cons of each potential offer aloud. The decision obviously had to include her, because they were both agreed that they refused to be separate during the season, so wherever he went, she and the girls were coming. The contract length had to be long enough that they wouldn’t uproot the girls any time soon, and a no trade clause needed to seal that. Maria dismissed Tampa Bay and Dallas immediately, because she doesn’t like hot weather, but left the rest in his hands.

Washington’s a good fit. A good team. An even better team, now that David’s on it. Now that they both are.

Oleg blinks at the flash of a camera right in his face, the echoes of it patterned against the insides of his eyelids. “Masha,” he says.

“Too good not to take,” she says, and refuses to delete the photo of him wearing a truly foolish smile.


	3. Robbie/Georgie, David/Jake, Kiro/Em, others; Hogwarts AU

Roman is going to fucking kill someone.

That’s too vague. Roman is going to fucking kill his dorm mates, because it is one in the morning, Roman has to get up way too early because Evan Connelly asked if Roman could help him with charms and Roman was completely incapable of saying no, even though seven in the morning is not a time he’s usually acquainted with on Sundays, and Robbie and Georgie are, once again, having sex, and once again, are not bothering to be subtle about it.

“You definitely know silencing spells, you fuckers!” Roman yells, and there’s dead silence for a moment, almost like they belatedly — finally — used said silencing spell, before he hears Robbie laughing.

Roman pulls his pillow over his head and mumble-casts a muffliato on himself.

*

David’s diligently juicing a squill bulb and half listening to Lombardi chattering while he grinds occamy eggshell into dust. Lombardi works better when he’s talking, David’s noticed, so he’s stopped trying to shush him, but he usually ends up tuning him out so he can concentrate on his portion of the work.

“— so yeah, according to Georgie’s mom we have to do something all  _special_ for our anniversary, and he’s too much of a chickenshit to tell her what we’ve actually got planned, so —”

David blinks. The only Georgie he knows of at Hogwarts is Georgie Dineen, but he doesn’t know everyone, and maybe it’s a different Georgie, short for Georgia, or Georgina. But Robbie said he, so — “Georgie Dineen?” he asks.

“Duh,” Lombardi says, then, “What’s with the face?”

“Like, an  _anniversary_  anniversary?” David asks.

“Uh,” Robbie says. “Yeah? Seriously, what’s with the face, Chapman?”

“I didn’t know you were together,” David says.

Lombardi stares at him.

“What?” David asks.

Lombardi grins. “You’re getting better at jokes,” he says, bafflingly, and then ruffles David’s hair until David, scowling, shoves his hand away so he can put it back in order.

“You can’t kill me with your eyes, Lourdey,” Lombardi says, even more bafflingly. David glances over furtively to see Lourdes glaring at them, then colouring when he meets David’s eyes. David ducks his head, feeling his cheeks heat as well, flustered enough that he forgets Lombardi’s statement until they’re out of class.

*

“Does Lombardi have a boyfriend?” David asks when he joins Kiro and Emily at their designated table in the library. He knows it’s not a particularly polite way to start a conversation, but he’s been blindsided by it.

Kiro stares at him.

“What?” David asks.

Kiro stares at him some more.

“ _What_?” David asks.

“Em,” Kiro says, and when she hums without looking up, “Emily!”

“What?” she snaps, but looks up from her textbook.

“How long have Lombardi and Dineen been together?” Kiro asks.

Emily gives Kiro a look even David can interpret as ‘why did you interrupt my reading for this?’ “Like two years,” she says. “I mean, unless you’re counting the whole sublimating attraction through punching each other’s arms, because that definitely started third year.”

“David learned they are together today,” Kiro says.

“What?” Emily says, then, “David,  _seriously_? Isn’t Lombardi your lab partner?”

“Yes,” David says.

“And he doesn’t talk about Dineen constantly?” Emily asks.

“I mean, he’s mentioned him,” David says. “But they’re friends.”

“Friends don’t make out through half of Yule Ball,” Emily says, and when Kiro clears his throat, “Okay, me and Melissa excepted. And at least we didn’t get caught half naked in a storage closet by Filch after.”

“You and Melissa made out?” David says.

“Oh my god, David,” Emily says. “You were there!”

“He was paying attention to Lourdes and his date,” Kiro says, sotto voice.

“I was not!” David says, then, “Shut up!”

They get kicked out of the library again.

*

“Fitzgerald, right?” Liam hears, and looks up to see a vaguely familiar guy. Hufflepuff, Liam thinks. Might be a year ahead of him. “You still running—”

“Of course,” Liam says, cutting him off before he finishes the question. You never know who’s listening, especially when portraits and ghosts might be reporting to the professors.

“You got any bets open on Lombardi and Dineen?” he asks.

Liam flips through his book. “What do you want? I’ve got ‘caught by Filch’ — that one’s already been paid out but it could definitely happen again, or ‘Novak snaps and kills them’, or—”

“Engaged before they graduate?” the guy asks. “I don’t know if that’s too specific, or—”

“Odds are 7:1,” Liam says immediately.

“I’ll put a galleon on that,” he says, proffering it immediately.

“Thank you for your custom,” Liam chirps, then, “Wait, aren’t you a —”

“Thanks!” the guy says, and bolts away.

Liam thinks he’s going to be out some galleons. “That was a Dineen, wasn’t it,” Liam asks his charming first year assistant. People underestimate him, because he’s small, but he’s sly, and probably smarter than half the seventh years, and he’s got the instincts of a bookie. Liam figures by the time he hits third year he’s going to go from mentee to mentor, but that’s fine. Liam’s ego can take it.

Victor hums. “Middle Dineen.”

“Well, fuck,” Liam says. “Better start adjusting the odds.”


	4. Caroline/Katie, Charlie, Jaya; at least she’s Canadian

Caroline’s not going to give free tickets and supporting her fellow athletes a miss just because the media, when writing gleeful accounts about childhood connection, neglected to mention the fact that while Caroline and Katie skated in the same class at four, that was also the last time they’d seen each other. Well, the last time they’d seen each other until they got here, media being what it is, and Katie was super gracious and nice considering when they met again considering they were like, perpetuating a lie in the form of a heartfelt origin story.

Being there is probably going to fuel CBC’s whole ‘what a small world’ storyline they’ve got going on, but Caroline likes to watch figure skating, they’ve got a whole gaggle of the team going, so it’s basically team bonding, and again, free. It’s hard to say no to free.

Caroline doesn’t know much about figure skating, besides what she likes, only pays attention to it every four years when the Olympics roll around, but by any measure, Katie’s fucking — she’s fantastic. Caroline’s in awe.

“Dude,” Charlie says, after Katie’s routine, and Caroline would ignore her, but Charlie will not be ignored. If you ignore Charlie she’ll just say the same thing again, but louder.

“What?” Caroline says.

“At least she’s Canadian,” Charlie says, mysteriously, and then, even more mysteriously, the usually completely composed Jaya smacks her in the arm. Hard.

“Ow!” Charlie yelps.

“Swap seats with me?” Caroline asks Monique.

“Not a chance in hell,” Monique says heartlessly.


	5. Luke, Ben; sleepless

Ben can tell Vicki’s surprised that Luke’s great with Sadie. He knows how Luke comes across, and he tries not to take it personally that she assumed, but it’s hard, because Ben knows first hand how great he is.

 _He let me follow him around when he was a teenager and I barely reached his hip, even though I know his friends bugged him about it,_  Ben doesn’t say _. When my sisters acted too cool for me, he’d still let me cuddle on the couch._  It was a long time ago, but that Luke never went away, whatever anyone else, Luke included, seems to think.

Luke’s careful with Sadie, but not ginger. She’s not the first addition to the Morris clan, not even close, and Ben’s happy that she’s going to have cousins to play with, to follow around. Between his sisters and Vicki’s siblings, there’s no shortage.  Sadie’s too young to appreciate it yet, but definitely not too young to get appropriated by the nearest Morris once they return to Grande Prairie for the offseason, his parents happy to spend time with their newest grandchild, his sisters telling him how much easier kids are before they start to talk.

If that’s the case, they’re in trouble, because Sadie’s exhausting. Like, Ben has never loved anyone more in his entire life, she’s the greatest thing that’s ever happened to him, but that’s hard to remember in the middle of the night when she’s crying like she’s heartbroken and won’t stop no matter what they do, not hungry, not needing a change, not content to get rocked, just crying.

Ben’s never stayed anywhere but his parents’ when he comes back, but he thinks they’re going to have to book a hotel room or rent a place just so it’s only him and Vicki — and Sadie — who aren’t getting a good night’s sleep.

That feeling’s crystallized when he wakes up to Sadie’s tears, too far to be in the room, where she should be, and jolts up, stumbling downstairs to find Vicki crashed on the couch and Luke in the arm chair, murmuring, “Look how tired your mom is, sweetheart, let’s give her a break, huh?”

“Sorry,” Ben mumbles. “I can—”

“I’ve got her, bud,” Luke says. “Go grab some sleep while you can.”

Ben nudges Vicki awake and sends her upstairs, her gait looking like she’s sleepwalking.

“You too, Benny,” Luke says, but Ben slumps down beside him on the couch, head on his shoulder, curling a hand around Sadie’s kicking foot before letting go.

“Babies are tiring,” Ben mumbles.

“But look what you did,” Luke says. “You made a  _human,_ Ben.”

“Holly and Katie did it first,” Ben says. “And Vicki did all the work making her, I just freaked out a lot.”

“Yeah, but you know I’m always proudest of you,” Luke says, and Ben smiles.

“Don’t fall asleep here,” Luke says, but kind of far away, and Ben wakes up to Vicki shaking his shoulder, Sadie passed out against her chest. There’s pale light streaming through the living room window, a blanket tucked around him, and Luke conked out beside him, snoring.

“M’up,” Ben mumbles, then tucks his face back into Luke’s shoulder.


	6. Roman/Harry;  dog park

Harry’s never been to the dog park a few miles from his place before — Beau doesn’t mind his leash all that much but he absolutely loathes cars — but Roman keeps insisting Zuza needs to be a ‘free spirit’, so Beau has to suffer a little for his buddy.

Harry realizes halfway there that, considering his dogsitter lives right near him, Beau’s only experiences with cars are during moves and on the way to the vet. He looks so tragic in the rearview mirror he breaks Harry’s heart, and no matter how much Harry says ‘walk’ or ‘park’ or ‘run’, he keeps whining low in his throat and looking at Harry with betrayed eyes.

“Pull over,” Harry says. “I’m getting in the back.”

“You’re such a soft touch,” Roman says, but he does pull over, so Harry’s going to pretend he never said it. Anyway, he can’t talk. He’s already started talking about throwing Zuza a party for her first birthday, and that’s literally months away. Who’s the soft touch now, Novak?

Beau calms down a bit once Harry settles in the back with him and Zuza, putting his head on Harry’s thigh and giving him mournful looks from close up until they arrive. He’s clearly confused once he gets out of the car, trying to mesh ‘evil vet’ with ‘great outdoors!’ in his doggy brain.

“Park!” Harry says to him. “Let’s go, Beau! Run!”

Zuza doesn’t need any encouragement, pulling on her leash hard in her excitement to get to the exciting leash free land, and Beau follows her, looking even more confused once they hit the enclosure and Harry unclips his leash.

It’s deserted besides the two of them — the four of them — between being early afternoon on a weekday and cold as fucking balls out. That’d be disappointing if Zuza and Beau didn’t have one another to play with, but they do, and Harry actually appreciates it, not having to make small talk with other dog parents, not worrying that someone might recognize them. It’s not like, weird, two teammates going to the dog park together, that’s pretty innocent seeming, but still. It’s nice not to have to worry about it.

“How are you this —” Harry says, waving a hand at where Roman’s standing all stoic, smugly not shivering even though it can’t be more than ten degrees out. Even Zuza’s got a sweater on, and she’s part  _husky_. Not that Roman isn’t wearing a coat, obviously, but his doesn’t look any warmer than Harry’s, and Harry is fucking freezing. Roman’s indifference to the cold is an outrage. “You’re from fucking LA.”

“We moved to Minny when I was eight,” Roman says. “I’m not exactly a California boy. C’mere.”

“Nope,” Harry says, but doesn’t resist when Roman reels him in by the sleeve of his coat.

“It’s probably all your padding,” Harry says through chattering teeth, as Roman tucks an arm around him.

“I can lift you with one hand,” Roman says, and Harry, recognizing that’s a threat and not bragging, takes three steps back so he doesn’t suffer the indignity of his boyfriend lifting him up one-handed. At least in public, even if no one’s around to see it.

“I can lift your mom with one hand,” Harry retorts.

“No you can’t,” Roman says.

Harry has met Roman’s mom — team stuff, not like…meet the parents, thank fuck, because the idea of that is terrifying, and she’s basically tiny in comparison to Roman, so, you know, normal human sized, but yeah, Harry could probably not lift her with one hand. Two for sure, but it’s probably bad manners to pick up your boyfriend’s parents. And he doesn’t think he could lift Roman’s dad, who is a lot more comparable in size to Roman, at all.

“Well,” Harry says, then because bravado only goes so far when you know you’re beat, “Fuck off.”

Roman’s grinning when he kisses him, teeth and cold mouth. Harry bites his lip in retaliation for his amusement, before pulling back to check on the status of the park — still empty, thank fuck — and the dogs, who are having a damn ball. Beau’s found a stick. Zuza’s still in raptures.

Harry’s maybe freezing his ass off, but he doesn’t mind sticking around for a little while longer.


	7. Milan/Brandon; upping the game

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The origins of Milan and Brandon began on Patreon, but here’s what you need to know for this:
> 
> Milan’s a diehard Pens fan who recently relocated to Philly for work, and refuses to hide his Pens fan ways, up to and including a giant sticker on his car. Brandon lives in his building and is a Flyers fan inasmuch as he, you know. Plays for them. Brandon’s teammates started a letter war with Milan, and Brandon is living with the fallout.

Two weeks into his letter war with his Flyers fanatic neighbor, Milan goes from amused (and admittedly a little riled — look, he’s already clearly outnumbered by Flyers fans in Philly, they don’t have to make him bring that  _home_ ) to slightly uneasy.

He’s not sure what bugs him about the latest letter, but it’s enough to make him bring it upstairs to compare to the others, even though he was on his way out. He doesn’t know why he kept them, but he’s been reluctant to throw them out for some reason, even though they’re full of blatant falsehoods, like the Flyers being good at anything but racking up penalties and getting scored against as a result.

He pulls the letters out out, and not only does the handwriting not match any of the previous notes, none of the notes match  _each other_ , except for two.

So like, either six people live in that two bedroom apartment — and it’s two bedroom max, this place doesn’t have any apartments bigger than that — or 203 is purposely changing their handwriting in almost every letter.

He can’t decide which is scarier.

Actually, he totally can. Especially since, now that he’s looking at them side to side, there’s a word that’s misspelled in one letter and spelled perfectly in another. That’s like serial killer level faking your handwriting.

Milan looks at his phone. He’s going to be late for work if he writes a reply, but he does it anyway, for his own damn peace of mind.

*

Brandon is going to goddamn kill his teammates.

It’s been a few weeks since Mathias got the bright idea to troll the Pens fan in his building, and since then Brandon’s received approximately a half dozen letters under his door. He thought the dude was nuts, like, flat out ‘shit should I get a restraining order’ crazy, but the latest letter? That has him rethinking things.

_Are there six of you crammed in that apartment or are you a serial killer who keeps changing up his handwriting to elude the police?_

_Please be six of you._

_-Your vaguely frightened neighborhood Penguins fan_

Considering he played for the Preds, Bolts, and Hawks before he came here at the start of last season, if Brandon gave a shit every time someone didn’t like his team he’d be exhausted. Also have some whiplash, considering the fact he’s played for divisional rivals before. But apparently some of the dudes do care, or at least think they’re fucking funny.

Brandon hasn’t even had any of those fuckers over lately, so now he’s picturing Mathias — and whoever he’s roped into this, if the different handwriting thing’s true, and he has no reason to disbelieve it, though he can also see Mathias changing up his handwriting from letter to letter — sneaking over to the poor guy’s car on their way home from a game or before an early morning workout to avoid getting caught by Brandon or the Pens fan, snickering to themselves at the idea of Brandon receiving yet another pro-Pens diatribe out of the blue.

Fuckers. They’re all fuckers.

 _I’m boarding you so fucking hard in practice_ , Brandon texts Mathias, and Mathias immediately responds with three crying laughing emojis. They’ll see who’s laughing when Brandon follows through with his threat.

*

Milan wishes his apartment window faced his car. The group (or single serial killer) seem to have figured out his schedule enough to know to leave letters either late at night or early in the morning (alternately, Milan, you paranoid loser, that’s when your car is actually in the parking lot), and it’s too cold for a stakeout to see who’s leaving them.

Milan’s bleary eyed, undercaffeinated, and really not in the mood for more verbal (written?) abuse from a serial killer (or maybe it’s six serial killers? The Flyers  _would_  have serial killer fans) when he sees the letter under his windshield wiper the next morning. He considers just balling it up, but obviously they know where his car is, so he may as well just deal with it now.

_Sorry, I didn’t send any of those letters. My friends are dicks who think they’re funny, even though they really aren’t._

_I really don’t care who you’re a fan of. You do you._

_I promise I’m not a serial killer._

_:)_

_\- Your neighbour in 203_

Milan squints at it, trying to figure out if it’s a fuck you smiley like he sent 203 — or maybe one of his friends. Her friends? He doesn’t actually know. It’s not like his neighbors all wear their apartment numbers on their foreheads.

Well now Milan feels petty and ridiculous. Not that he didn’t before, but at least he felt like he was being matched in pettiness. Exceeded, even, since he’s right in the middle of enemy ground.

He makes a mental note to slip a letter under 203 when he gets home that night, thanking them for not being a serial killer and telling them to get better friends.

 _I really wish I could_ , is the note greeting him the next morning, along with  _Wear a Pens jersey if you want to but don’t blame me if you get in trouble_ , which is confusing right up until he notices that, paperclipped to the bottom, are a pair of tickets to the next Penguins-Flyers matchup in three weeks.

They’ve got to be fake. They’re two hundred dollar tickets, there’s no fucking way they’re real. Milan swings by Wells-Fargo Center on his way home that evening, even though it’s out of his way, just to confirm that his neighbor’s an asshole.

They are apparently not fake, and now Milan feels like even more of a petty jerk. Honestly he might prefer continuing to correspond with his neighbor’s friends. At least they sink low enough he feels on the level.

 _Want to come with me? I’ll even let you wear a Flyers jersey_ , Milan slips under the door that night, and feels kind of hurt when there isn’t a letter waiting for him the next morning.


	8. Robbie, Class of Canadiana, Lauren; armistice

“That’s it,” Lauren shouts. “That’s fucking it.”

Robbie doesn’t think he’s ever heard Lauren yell before — she’s as laid back as Dougie, if not even more so — so he freezes in the act of snatching off Matty’s stupid Canada beanie.

She storms out of the room.

“Should I…go after her?” Dougie asks, sounding kind of frightened.

“She’s your girlfriend, dude,” Robbie says. “I can’t tell you what to do there.”

Lauren comes marching back in with one of those big plastic storage bins before Dougie makes a move. “I want everything with a flag on it in this bin right now,” she says, and when everyone just stares at her. “Now.”

“But Craney’s on Team Canada,” Matty whines. “We’re supporting him.”

“Georgie’s on Team USA,” Robbie counters, and refuses to acknowledge the look Matty gives him.

“And Chaps,” Matty says. “So Canada automatically outranks—”

“Fucking now,” Lauren says. “Jerseys, hats, whatever you’ve got, in this bin.”

“You’re not…throwing them out, are you?” Robbie says.

“I’m confiscating them,” Lauren says. “You can have them back when the Olympics are over.”

They exchange looks, clearly waiting to see who’ll object, but Lauren’s fucking scary right now, so hat off, Robbie guesses. He’s got stuff at home anyway, so sucks to be Dougie and Matty, because he’ll return better and more American than ever.

“Why’s your jersey still on, Roberto,” Lauren says.

“It doesn’t have a flag on it, so—” Robbie says.

Lauren glares at him so hard he thinks the first layer of his skin gets stripped off.

“Okay, okay,” Robbie mutters. “You know, you could show some national pride, Lauren. Just because you have the poor taste to love a Canadian —”

“I will wrestle it off you,” she says, and Robbie hastily removes it before she can follow through.


	9. Annie, Harry/Evan/Roman; approval

Annie’s the last person to judge ever —

“Objectively not true,” Erin says.

Annie is definitely not the kind of person who’d judge other people’s relationships just because they aren’t the whole conventional monogamous heteronormative whatever —

Erin waves a hand, gives her a so-so, which Annie is going to take as agreement.

But she really didn’t think this was going to actually last.

She didn’t tell Harry that, because if you tell Harry anything he doesn’t want to hear, he will either pretend you never said it or hold a grudge, especially if you end up being right, but also because he sounded genuinely happy about it, and she didn’t have the heart to step on that. But it’s been four months, and while that isn’t that long for a relationship, necessarily, it’s longer than she’d expected by a wide margin, and Harry still sounds happy about it.

Well, 99% of the time he mentions Roman he’s bitching about him, but he’s bitching about him in the smitten but he’s Harry so he can’t express it normally way, not the way he bitches about things in general.

She’s kind of hyped to meet them. Well, not meet them, exactly. She’s met both of them before, but when she did it was in the context of them being Harry’s teammates, not his boyfriends, so this is a little different.

“Be nice to them,” Erin says.

“I’m always nice,” Annie says, and Erin snorts.

*

When Harry and Sam are both in the playoffs, as they’ve been back to back years, splitting up the support has to happen. Annie just hopes they don’t play each other this year. Or ever. Mom would probably tear her hair out she’d be so stressed, judging by the way she is when they play each other in the regular season.

The folks are still in NYC, will probably come out if either team makes the WCF, but Annie forms the vanguard. Deb’s hitting up LA as soon as her finals are over, and she may get the better weather, but Annie’s got the better brother.

Harry’s all by his lonesome — well, except for Beau, who she’s more than happy to see, since her love for dogs is in direct proportion to the level Erin’s allergic to them — which puts a damper on her plans to scope them out.

“Where’s thing one and thing two?” Annie asks. “I thought they practically lived at your place.”

“Hey,” Harry says, then, “I dunno, I figured you’re here—”

“Don’t put them out on my behalf,” Annie says.

“You’re okay with them coming over?” Harry asks.

“I can’t ruthlessly interrogate them if they don’t, Harold,” Annie says, and dodges before he can pinch her.

*

The interrogation doesn’t really happen.

Annie had planned on it — Annie is a woman of her word — but Evan’s honestly so sweet and heart on his sleeve Annie can’t be suspicious of him after the very first hello, and Roman gets this stupid, stupid look on his face when Harry’s engaged in a tug of war and some trashtalking with Beau — one-sided, obviously, because Beau’s too dignified to respond — the visual equivalent of the bitching Harry does, all ‘you’re ridiculous but I adore you’, and Annie officially approves of him too.

They don’t stay over, which again they didn’t have to do on Annie’s behalf, but she does kind of appreciate the time to chill in front of the TV with Harry, Beau letting her use him as a furry footrest.

“What’d you think?” Harry says.

“Of your boys?” Annie asks. “Thumbs up.”

“Yeah?” Harry asks, glancing over. “Like are you just saying that, or—”

“They like you so much,” Annie says, twisting one of Harry’s curls before flicking him in the cheek.

“Yeah?” Harry asks.

“It’s honestly gross how much they like you,” Annie says.

“Payback for you and Erin,” Harry says.

“I’m really happy for you, Har,” Annie says, and Harry’s smile in response is almost shy.


	10. Morgan/Theo; exception

Here’s some background for those who are first seeing these guys. Morgan’s a top draft pick of the Dallas Wild who’s staying with a veteran player who has a tendency to open his house to rookies (Kai and Grigory, mentioned below, are two of his previous billets). He kind of takes it personally that the vet’s oldest kid doesn’t like him.

 **Note:** Morgan’s eighteen, and Theo  **sixteen**  at this point, but nothing happens between them before Theo reaches the age of consent (17 in Texas).

It wasn’t easy, but Morgan thinks he’s won over the Roys.

Bruno wasn’t hard. Bruno basically likes everyone, he’s the gel in the locker room, and as long as Morgan holds up his end of the bargain: does the chores designated for him on the chore board, doesn’t break any of the rules about drinking and drugs, doesn’t bring girls over, which is not a problem, like, at all, works his ass off on the ice, Bruno’s easygoing as anything.

Celine was a little harder. You can tell it’s kind of a pain in the ass to keep having players billet with them. Their house is huge, but with five kids ranging from seven to sixteen — or, Morgan guesses, seven to eighteen, because he’s sure Celine thinks of him more as an extra kid than anything — the place is always jumping, something’s always happening, and if Morgan’s overwhelmed by it as a lodger, he can’t imagine how much worse it is for Celine as a parent.

But honestly, it’s the fundamentally same things, minus the working his ass off on the ice. He doesn’t make her life harder, he does what he’s asked to do and sometimes does a little more, like get Frederick out of her hair when she’s trying to make dinner, or run to the convenience store to get milk, or empty the dishwasher even though that’s Theo’s job, because there aren’t any clean forks left and Theo’s nowhere to be found, and he’s got the Celine Belanger seal of approval.

The kids are harder. Not Frederick, Morgan basically won Frederick over on day one with mini-sticks and grilled cheese, but a ten year who only surfaces out of her book at meal times when Celine physically confiscates it, a tween (do they still even use that word? Morgan suddenly feels weirdly old) who spends most of her time watching youtube videos of people shrieking completely nonsense, and a fourteen year old who’s definitely got some anger management issues and has decided he hates his parents? Harder, but he manages.

He offers to take Emma to the library, and gets through about a million rounds of Candy Crush while she picks as many books as she’s allowed to take at one time. Then finds himself getting a library card so she can get more. He doesn’t even know how that happens, but she’s pro-Morgan after that.

There’s no way he can bond with Alexia over the whole youtube thing, he’d probably end up stabbing out his ear drums, but suddenly her friends start coming over in droves, giggling whenever he enters the room, and Morgan guesses they care a little more about the professional hockey thing than her. Or just the eighteen year old guy thing. Either way, she suddenly seems to always have friends around, and she’s always nice to him when they’re there, and eventually even when they’re not.

Winning Mathieu over is honestly just a matter of feeding him, Morgan finds out mostly by accident, and if he occasionally picks up something on his way home, knocks on Mathieu’s door and makes a food offering to the angry god, he’s good to go.

So Morgan has basically won over the Roys. 

With an exception.

Theo…is a problem. There is literally nothing Morgan can bond over him with. If he says he likes the music he’s listening to — total lie, it’s some kind of weird ambient…thing but at least it’s better than those youtube videos — Theo snorts derisively and seems to know Morgan’s full of shit. If he offers to grab some food for him he’s not hungry. If he tries to give Theo his choice to pick for movie night (movie picking rights are sacrosanct in the Roy house), ‘you wouldn’t like whatever I picked’.

It is impossible.

After every single attempt he can think of has been rebuffed, he swallows his pride and asks Kai for help.

“Okay,” Morgan says. “Help me, because I am pretty sure Theo Roy is the hardest person in the planet to befriend, and his disdain for my existence is about to make me snap.”

“I don’t know man,” Kai says. “Like, it took him awhile to thaw, but we get along pretty well. Maybe it’s just a time thing?”

“That’s probably because you’re—” Morgan says, flapping a hand.

“What?” Kai asks.

“A total hipster?” Morgan says, and gets put in a headlock for his trouble.

“You’re wearing fucking skinny jeans,” Morgan chokes out breathlessly. “How did you even find any to fit your ass.”

“Woman’s section,” Grigory says, and Kai lets go of Morgan to go after him instead.

“Please tell me you didn’t get along with Theo,” Morgan says to Grigory once he’s freed himself from Kai’s clutches. 70% of the clothing Grigory owns is Nike branded, with his game day suits and Wild branded gear the only exceptions, and if Nike made suits, he’d be in it basically full time. Grigory listens to euro dance stuff, and makes everyone around him suffer when he takes a turn with the speakers. Grigory plays DOTA obsessively. Grigory, in other words, cannot be described as a hipster. Morgan’s not 100% sure what hipster means anymore, but irony’s always part of it, and there is nothing about Grigory that is ironic.  

Grigory smiles. “I like Theo. He’s nice.”

“Theo is not nice,” Morgan says. “Theo is the opposite of nice.”

Grigory shrugs. “Must just not like you,” he says.

“Dude,” Morgan says. “Uncool. You guys are less than zero help.”

*

Morgan keeps trying, because now it’s become a point of pride, and he’s not going to stoop to asking Bruno how to make his kid like him, or wandering around behind Theo and whining, “What will make you act like you do with Kai and Grigory?”

Well, not yet at least.

He pulls out the big guns. On his way home from practice he goes to this bakery that has the best freaking cookies ever, buys an entire chocolate cake. No one can resist chocolate cake.

“Hey,” he says casually from the kitchen when Theo gets home from school. “I got chocolate cake if you want some.”

“I don’t like chocolate,” Theo says, and walks right past him.

Morgan gapes. Who doesn’t like  _chocolate_? Morgan doesn’t think he wants someone who doesn’t like chocolate to like him anyway.

“Cake!” Mathieu says, coming in behind him, and then eats two slices right in front of Morgan’s dejected face.

Two days later Morgan sees Theo eating a Hershey bar and feels completely betrayed. That’s not even good chocolate. That’s the kind of chocolate you settle for when you can’t have a slice of a thirty freaking dollar chocolate cake.

That’s it. Morgan gives up. He doesn’t care what some stupid sixteen year old who probably wears those glasses without a prescription just to look smart thinks about him anyway.

“Make him like me,” Morgan begs Kai at practice the next day.


	11. David/Jake, Robbie/Georgie, Kiro/Emily, Roman/Evan; more HP AU

Between Georgie, and the Quidditch Cup, and Georgie, and NEWTs, and his papa not being super hyped about Robbie getting engaged before he actually  _passes_  said NEWTs, and like…Georgie Dineen — who is going be Georgie Lombardi-Dineen, because it sounds better than Dineen-Lombardi, they’re agreed on that — Robbie’s got a lot on his mind.

Still, Robbie has never been one to let a bro down, and as someone who is maybe kind of a believer in The Power Of Love lately, caps totally necessary, Robbie is not going to let Jake down.

Because anyone with eyes knows Jake’s been crazy into David since they were first years, which is an impressive amount of time to hold a torch, even in Robbie’s opinion, because Robbie didn’t get struck in the face with the clue bat until third year, and only pined pitifully for a year and a half before he snapped and grabbed Georgie by the face. It kind of kills Robbie to think of Jake making it to graduation and beyond without ever actually doing anything about it.

It’s not Jake level obvious, because nothing is Jake level obvious, but David is totally not uninterested. Robbie’s been his Potions partner for years now, and he was kind of hard to figure out at first, but he reacts to everything Jake does — Jake drops his quill? David glares at him. Jake looks at him — and Jake is always looking at him — David bristles. Jake answers a question in class? David grinds his teeth.

And yeah, that sounds like annoyance, and Robbie thought it was for a literal year, and felt like shit for Jake, but David also ducks his head and starts looking at the ingredients, ears going pink, whenever Jake talks, even though the teeth grinding is definitely happening too, and shoots glances at him that are as split second as Jake’s are lingering, and the bristling is probably just because he gets caught because Jake’s always looking back, and fundamentally being as aware of Jake as Jake is of him. Like, they may be handling it in two completely different ways, but they’re about two seconds away from furiously making out at any second.

Unfortunately, Robbie’s pretty sure if he told David to go for it David would charm his mouth shut and set his robes on fire, and seven years of pining doesn’t really testify to Jake’s ability to go out and seize the day and the bristling Hufflepuff, so Robbie’s at a loss.

Except. Except David’s best friend is a Slytherin, and his girlfriend is the first in most of their classes. If anyone can figure out how to get something to happen before they all graduate and separate and Jake forever pines for the one who got away, it’s a Slytherin-Ravenclaw power couple.

Robbie thinks it’s time to enlist some outside help.

*

Two months before they graduate, Lombardi corners Kirill and Em in the library.

“Look,” Lombardi says. “Are we just going to let them leave here without at least fucking it out?”

“Crude,” Em says, and Lombardi apologizes, so Kirill guesses he doesn’t realize she said it approvingly.

Kirill shrugs. Doesn’t bother to pretend ignorance, because they all know who he’s referring to, all know Lourdes’ seven year flame is reciprocated. “Up to David,” he says. “I won’t interfere.”

“That is the least Slytherin thing I’ve ever heard in my life,” Lombardi says, and Kirill can practically feel the ghost of Lapointe’s presence — not an actual ghost, Kirill must clarify, considering the location, but more an echo of many, many years of pamphlets, even though Lapointe’s graduated and is now working for The Daily Prophet. People were appalled that he was selling out, especially to a newspaper that’s so virulently anti-Slytherin, but Kiro suspects he’s attempting to dismantle it from the inside out. He approves.

Kirill just shrugs again. “Up to David,” he repeats.

“Look,” Lombardi says. “Do you know how many witches and wizards marry the person they dated at Hogwarts?”

“You would,” Em says, and Lombardi twists the ring on his finger. Kirill can’t tell if it’s self-conscious or proud. They’re the first to get engaged, but they’ll be far from the last. Em wants them both to go to post-secondary first, to live a little, but they probably won’t be an exception to that either.

“Do we tell him?” Em says to her textbook, after Lombardi attempts multiple tacks to convince them, and then, frustrated, storms away.

“Hm?” Kirill asks.

“Do we tell him they’re already fucking it out?” Em asks.

Kirill shrugs. “Up to David.”

*

Jake’s been weird lately. Kind of shifty, like he’s holding back something, which really isn’t like him. Jake’s not even an open book, he’s a picture book. His heart’s not so much on his sleeve as on his forehead.

Robbie and Georgie don’t seem to notice, but honestly Robbie and Georgie don’t seem to notice anything outside of each other, and while that was always the case, it’s intensified since the whole coming back from Hogsmeade on their anniversary with identical rings and shit eating grins. The first time Roman mentioned that Jake was acting off, Georgie only surfaced long enough to say “Jake?”, like he was trying to place the name of a guy he’s shared a room with for seven years, then went right back to staring into Robbie’s limpid pools or whatever he’s calling them lately.

They’re brown. His eyes are a normal brown. No limpid necessary. Roman doesn’t even know what limpid means, but he knows it doesn’t apply to Robbie’s eyes.

“Hi Roman,” Connie says when Roman passes him in the hall after breakfast, smiling that little smile, bright blue eyes crinkling at the corners.

“What’s limpid mean?” Roman asks Emily in Transfiguration.

“Clear,” Emily says, which doesn’t sound good enough. “Like, crystalline if you’re referring to eyes. Why, has Georgie been writing poems again?”

“Huh?” Roman asks, then, “Oh. Yeah.”

Crystalline sounds about right.

“Hey, has Jake seemed weird to you?” Roman asks, when he’s stopped daydreaming. Emily’s nudged her notes where he can see them, so she must have noticed.

“I don’t know him very well,” Emily says, but she sounds sketchy, looks visibly tense.

“Wait,” Roman says, because Emily doesn’t know Jake very well, yeah, but she can usually be found with Volkov and Chapman. “Chapman?”

Two rows ahead, Jake swivels, eyes all wide, and Jake reacting to ‘Chapman’ like a dog would react to ‘walk’ isn’t unusual, but the panicked look he gives Emily is.

“Shit, wait, seriously?” Roman says, and is about to say more before Emily jabs her quill into the back of his hand.

“Fuck, Ross, what the—”

“We’re not talking about this here,” Emily hisses, and Roman nurses his hand and painstakingly copies the notes Emily nudges closer to him in apology.


	12. Harry/Roman(/Evan); convalescence

Harry’s never seen Evan cut it closer to late than he is right now. If he was late to a practice or something he’d probably get the benefit of the doubt, but late to the airport? Not good.

“If you need anything while—”

“Sweetheart,” Roman says. “We’ll be fine.”

“I know, I just—” Evan says.

“Go be healthy somewhere else, like, I don’t know, at the airport,” Harry says, and when Evan frowns, “Ev, babe, we can get basically anything delivered, and you’re back in a week. Quit feeling guilty and go score like seven goals for us.”

“The man’s speaking sense,” Roman says, then completely ruins it with a, “For once.”

“Bite me,” Harry says.

“You enjoy it too much,” Roman says. “C’mere Connie.”

“What, you biting him instead to spite me?” Harry asks, and Evan laughs against Roman’s mouth.

Evan lets himself be nudged out the door after two kisses goodbye — not counting the ones from Beau and Zuza, which put him right in the realm of catastrophically late. Harry would worry less if he could trust Evan to speed all the way to the airport, but he knows he can’t.

*

While shit’s slightly harder without Evan doing everything in his power to make forced convalescence less annoying, they quickly get a bit of a rhythm down.

Harry would usually milk an injury for all he’s worth — and admittedly did with Evan, and only a little bit because it clearly made him feel less guilty about being the only one uninjured if he felt useful — but honestly, a sprained wrist, even badly sprained, is pretty low key on the injury front, and considering Roman’s torn a fucking tendon in his ankle, might be looking at surgery, Harry’s not about to have him fetch and carry or whatever. Well, maybe carry, since Harry’s limited to one useful hand, but they’re splitting things right now anyway.

Harry walks the dogs: one at a time, which they’re both tragic about, but Harry can’t manage two leashes in one hand, and if he screws his wrist up worse because Beau got really excited about piss on a tree or something, the team doctors would probably kill him. Roman does the cooking, though that’s typical even when Harry has the full use of both hands. Trash and clean up is Harry, dishes are Roman,

Basically they’re surviving, and Harry has to say it’s a lot better than the last time he was injured. Misery loves company and all, but he’s not actually miserable. 

Would he prefer to be healthy in Vancouver with the guys right now? Yeah, for sure, but it isn’t the worst, sitting on the couch with the game on — muted, because Harry handled about ten seconds of the color commentator before he threatened to throw the remote through the TV —  toying with the chain Roman wears, links slipping through his fingers, then balling in his fist when Vancouver gets a shorthanded breakaway, biting into his palm.

“You’re being distracting,” Roman says.

“You’re distracting,” Harry says, which as comebacks go is…terrible.

Roman snorts but doesn’t call him on it, pulls him in. “Be still,” he says, and that should be Harry’s cue to start moving around just to bug him, but because Roman’s clearly expecting that — Harry can feel the tension in his arm, coiled strength prepared to _make_  him be still — he settles against Roman’s chest instead, stays as still as Roman didn’t expect him to be. 

Well, he stays still right up until Val scores the opening tally, but neither of them are then, Harry jumping to his feet, Roman not far behind him, which is — no.

“Careful with your fucking ankle, moron!” Harry yells before he even hears the sound Roman makes, an auditory equivalent of a grimace.

“Your concern’s touching, Chalmers,” Roman says, tight, but lets Harry rearrange him with his ankle propped up on the coffee table, on a pillow, and Harry plasters himself more firmly to his chest so he can’t do anything stupid again, watching the muted TV, and listening to Roman’s commentary, the thump of his heart under his cheek, and one of the dogs doing something that sounds destructive, which he’s going to have to check on during the next commercial break.


	13. Francis Ito/Patrick Drake; luck

Francis shouldn’t be as surprised as he is when he runs into Drake.

He knows, of course, that some players remain during the offseason, and that running into one of his patients isn’t impossible — he saw Bryce Marcus at the gym all of a week ago, though Marcus didn’t seem to recognise him — but there’s something very odd about seeing someone outside of the context you generally do, a little surreal. Marcus at the gym was somewhat confusing, by an athlete at the gym is easier to contextualize than Drake at a bar, entirely out of the context Francis knows him in.

Out of context, and missing probably thirty pounds of hockey equipment, which explains why it takes Francis a moment to place why he looks so familiar. He’s seen Drake out of it, of course; physicals during training camp, stripped to his Under Armour. He’s cut his jersey off himself, but still, when Drake approaches him, for a moment he has no idea who it is.

Drake is the one who comes over, so obviously that doesn’t go both ways. Of course, Drake has seen a lot more of Francis than Marcus has, and perhaps Francis doesn’t seem as out of place as Drake does, out of costume, almost, because he wears street clothes to the arena. No one would know, sitting beside him, what he’s there for — well, except that the seats beside his belong to season ticket holders, a nice middle-aged couple who will give him a quick summary of what he missed if he manages to make it back to his seat before the end of the game. He’s grown quite fond of them.

“Dr. Ito,” Drake says, and even if Francis hadn’t blinked and realised who Drake was when he was approaching him, the tenor of his voice would have been instantly recognisable. Odd, considering how many times it’s been strained with discomfort or pain when Francis has spoken to him.

“Drake,” Francis says. “Nice to see you apparently uninjured.”

Drake grins. “Nice to be uninjured,” he says. “Kind of novel.”

“Hopefully it doesn’t stay that way,” Francis says. He still doesn’t really believe in luck, per se, but there’s no denying Drake hasn’t had a fortunate go of things. It isn’t even that he plays recklessly, as you might expect looking at his injury history. If anything, he’s more cautious than other players, probably for that exact reason. Still, it feels like there isn’t a month that goes by that he isn’t the product of a bad bounce of the puck, a teammate’s stick, a hit thrown he takes the brunt of.

Now that Francis thinks about it, if he believed in luck he might think Drake  _was_  lucky, considering he’s still playing, weathered injuries big and small in almost a decade of play without sustaining anything serious enough to end his career.

Drake knocks twice on Freancis’ table. Francis has a feeling he does believe in luck, considers himself unlucky. Honestly, Francis can’t blame him.

“Can I grab you a drink or something?” Drake asks. “I mean, it’s basically the least you deserve, considering how many times you’ve patched me up.”

That’s a bad idea for a number of reasons, the most obvious and relevant one being that Drake is his patient, and doesn’t cease being his patient just because it’s the offseason.

It’s most likely, anyway, that Drake’s just being polite. That if Francis were to take him up on it — which he won’t — they’d have a stiff, vaguely uncomfortable conversation about safe topics (the Flames, Drake’s health, lollipops) until the point Drake would be able to excuse himself without appearing rude.

“I can’t,” Francis says, and Drake looks like he’s expecting something to follow, perhaps a ‘I was just leaving’ or ‘I’m waiting for someone’, but it speaks for itself, really. He doesn’t know if he’s flattering himself to think that Drake looks disappointed.

“Maybe another time,” Drake says, and obviously that isn’t the case, but Francis says, “Maybe,” because it’s easier than the alternative.

*

Francis runs into him less than a week later, and Calgary’s not huge, but this is ridiculous. Again, Francis doesn’t believe in luck — though he can’t be sure if this would be good or bad — but as coincidences go, this is a considerable one.

Thankfully it’s nowhere that could lead to Drake following up on the ‘maybe another time’ if he wanted to. If he had even thought about it for a moment after. Francis doesn’t know why he’s been dwelling on it the way he has, why he didn’t promptly forget it. Or, well, not forget it, but shelve it in the same place he shelved seeing Marcus in the middle of his workout — a slightly odd little occurrence, the same way it always feels strange to run into a coworker on the street, like they’re not where they should be.

But between his gym, a pub he’s been going to for years, and the farmer’s market he often finds himself on Sundays, Francis is starting to wonder where he’s safe from running into Flames.

That sounds rather dramatic. Francis, running into the flames. The reality is more: Francis, unable to wave back when Patrick Drake waves at him, because he has a basket of strawberries in one hand, a bag of produce in the other.

He’s put the strawberries down by the time Drake walks over, takes Drake’s offered hand. Handshakes are fine, he figures.

“Starting to think you’re following me, doc,” Drake says.

“Well,” Francis says. “Considering your luck, maybe you need a doctor following you around.”

That was flirtatious, in hindsight. Not the comment itself — a joke, and one that makes sense considering their so frequent circumstances, but the tone. He needs to get his head straight before the season starts again.

“Hey,” Drake says. “I think my luck’s pretty good lately.”

Francis doesn’t know how to respond to that. Doesn’t want to read into it. It’s the offseason, and he’s uninjured: that’s all he’s referring to.

Drake’s still holding his hand.

“I have to go,” Francis says, quickly, and entirely forgets he was there specifically for the strawberries until he arrives home without them.


	14. Ulf/Carson Rutledge; regret

The next morning Carson will say it shouldn’t have happened, that it won’t happen again, will blame it all on the booze, but he thinks they both know it isn’t true long before the first time he comes back, or the second, or the tenth.

There’s that saying, ‘I don’t know if I want him or I want to be him’. Carson always thought it was stupid.

Yeah, Carson wishes he had some of that effortless confidence, could pick up as easy as breathing, could look like that — he thinks Ulf might not have a problem picking up even if he didn’t look like an Abercrombie model, but he doubts it hurts — but more than that he just —

Carson couldn’t pull it off in his place. It’s all Larssy. And he wants him. He shouldn’t, but he does.

*

The thing is, the thing Ulf doesn’t say the next morning, when Carson blames the booze, is that they really didn’t have much to drink. Two beers at the hotel bar, because they’re in Alberta, so they’re both legal, but Frankie gives them a long look when he’s coming into the lobby from wherever he’s been, like he expects them not to push it, an unspoken reminder that the game tomorrow’s a matinee one, and by mutual agreement they get the bill.

Two beers are enough to feel — loose maybe, easier. Nothing more than that, nothing to excuse it.

They watch the Daily Show shoulder to shoulder on Carson’s bed, because the TV’s angled the way. They could probably easily tilt it so they could both see, but the second time Larssy complains he can’t see, Carson says, “then come over here and stop bitching.” It’s not like it’s the first time they’ve sat on the same bed to watch something, and Carson’s been more…aware of that, maybe, than he should be, but it’s hardly a loaded thing. Not a lot of chairs in a hotel room, and there’s room for both of them on the bed.

Carson’s aware of it again, too aware, apparently, because Larssy turns after probably the fourth time he laughs and Carson doesn’t. “What’s up?” he asks.

“Just zoned out, I guess,” Carson says, though it was more a zoning in, his attention on the places they’re touching (shoulders, knees) or almost touching (biceps, thighs), close enough that he can feel the heat Ulf’s giving off.

“You want to turn it off, or—”

“Nah,” Carson says, too quickly, because that would probably involve Ulf going back to his bed. He tries to pay attention, though it’s hard, especially when Ulf shifts closer, thigh pressing against him, the heat a physical presence now. They’re sitting too close. Carson doesn’t know how they do it in Sweden, but—

“Rutter,” Ulf says, curling his hand around Carson’s wrist, and every part of Carson’s suddenly focused on that loose clasp of his fingers. “It’s cool.”

“What’s cool?” Carson asks.

“Whatever you want,” Larssy says, accompanied by a flash of white teeth. He’s still smiling when Carson kisses him, catching more teeth than mouth, though it doesn’t last. The smile, he means. The kiss does, starts out clumsy and awkward, but before Carson can apologize, maybe retreat to the bathroom and curl up in a ball of shame, Ulf’s stopped smiling, started returning it, deepening it, until Carson’s got his tongue in his mouth, got Ulf’s fingers sliding up under where his shirt’s ridden up. When he pulls back his mouth is wet, eyes pupil dark.

 _I did that_ , Carson thinks, and isn’t sure how he feels about it.

“Whatever you want,” Larssy says, and he’s not smiling this time.

Carson wants — Carson wants a lot, Carson wants too much, wants things he shouldn’t, wants things he can’t have. Or maybe he can, and maybe that’s the problem. Or maybe the problem is that when they’re offered, he takes it.

It becomes very obvious, very fast, that Larssy’s done this before. Carson has too, once at the U18s with a guy he can’t look in the eye anymore, a house party in high school with a guy from a different school he never had to look in the eye again. This is different. They share a team. They share a  _room_. This is so stupid.

It’s more intimate than either time before, which is a stupid word, but it’s what he thinks. The other two it was like — it was like just swapping out masturbation or something. Not really touching anywhere but hand on dick. Don’t need to be gay to like a hand on your dick.

It feels like they’re touching everywhere — the obvious, but also Ulf’s free hand restlessly touching him, like he’s trying to map him, Ulf’s mouth against his. Ulf kisses him the whole time, or at least most of it, until he’s getting close, leaking in Carson’s hand, breath hitching against his mouth, fingers going tight, almost too tight, around Carson’s dick in return. Simultaneous orgasms are bullshit, but they get off pretty damn close, Carson still catching his breath when Ulf spills against his fingers.

Carson’s barely cleaned himself off with the Kleenex beside the bed before he realises Ulf’s fallen asleep, sweats kicked off to the foot of the bed, underwear barely tugged up past the sharp cut of his hips, shirt still rucked up from Carson’s hands.

Carson should wake him, should tell him to go back to his bed, maybe even just get out, switch beds with him, or knock on Patty’s door, since his own roomie’s back in Dallas with a concussion, tell him Larssy’s snoring or something. 

There are so many options that aren’t falling asleep with Ulf a breath away, close enough that Carson could bridge the distance with the smallest shift, close enough he can see a tiny scar on his chin he’s never noticed before, like God said ‘okay, I guess I have to give him one imperfection, but it’ll just make him even more perfect’.

There are so many options, but Carson shuts his eyes, Ulf breathing slow and even beside him, the picture of unbothered, and Carson resists the urge to open his eyes again, to take him in, to touch him, and Carson doesn’t sleep for a long time.

*

In the morning, there’ll be the litany: it shouldn’t have happened, it won’t happen again, it was the booze.

Only one of those is true, and he doesn’t mean any of them, at least not at the time.


	15. Chalmers sibs, Harry/Roman/Evan; fair fight

“You know,” Annie says after. “If you told Sam that Roman was your boyfriend, he probably wouldn’t have punched him.”

“You sure about that, Annie?” Harry says. “You really sure about that?”

“Well,” she says. “Like. Seventy-percent sure.”

“Uh huh,” Harry says.

“Maybe sixty,” she amends.

*

It isn’t even the first time Sam and Roman have fought, though Harry doesn’t realize that until he’s maybe going on hockeyfights.com to see whether the public has ruled in favor of Roman or Sam (72% say Roman won it, and Harry’s annoyed it’s not higher).

Of course, the last time they fought Harry hadn’t broken into the roster, wasn’t dating the guy, and wasn’t sitting on the bench while his fucking asshole brother went at Roman during a scrum and punched him in the side of the head while he was looking the goddamn other way.

Harry’s up on his feet immediately, along with most of the bench, and the ref, not blind for once, is raising a hand even before Roman’s twisting around, gloves already off, and clocking Sam in the jaw.

It’s a good fight, at least the crowd thinks so, since they trade more than a few blows, but Harry feels sick to his stomach, and Evan, fingers loose around the jersey of another King, looks about the same. It’s not that it’s Roman fighting — because Harry’s seen that plenty, before and after they got together — or Sam fighting — Harry’s seen that plenty too — it’s just. He wasn’t goddamn looking. If someone clocked Harry like that he would have probably hit the ice.

*

“I’m so sorry,” Roman says after the second, his eye already purpling. “It was reflex, I didn’t even realize who it was until—”

“Dude, he sucker punched you,” Harry says. “That gives you automatic rights to fuck him up.”

“He’s your brother,” Roman says then, absently, “Thanks,” as Evan hands him a bag of ice, wincing at either the cold or the contact as he puts it over his eye.

“He’s also my opponent,” Harry says. “And that was dirty as fuck. Like, dude’s legit lucky if he doesn’t get suspended for that, why the hell wouldn’t you hit him?”

“Because—he’s your brother?” Roman repeats.

“You think  _I_  haven’t hit him before?” Harry asks. Maybe never on the ice, and maybe not since they were kids, but that’s more because Sam’s bigger than him and way more used to fighting, and Harry doesn’t like losing, not because he hasn’t wanted to since they were kids, because he definitely has. Sam’s hockey style is — well. Kind of like Roman’s. So basically he’s a dick.

“So…we’re okay?” Roman asks.

“You should have hit him harder,” Harry mutters.

*

Harry isn’t really super hyped to hang out with Sam after the game — for one, they lost, for two, Roman can barely open his damn eye, for three, fuck Sam — but it’d be kind of suspicious if he bowed out now, since they made plans.

“Come by mine after he heads out?” Roman asks.

“You guys could just come over to mine now,” Harry says. “Hang out.”

Roman gives him a skeptical look.

“It’d be cool,” Harry says.

“We’re not coming over to fuck with your brother, Chalmers,” Roman says.

“Why?” Harry says. “C’mon, it’d be so funny. ‘Come on in, Sam, have you met Roman?’”

“You telling him?” Roman asks.

“Yeah,” Harry says, “Totally planning on seeing how ‘hey fucker, you punched my boyfriend’ goes.”

Roman snorts.

*

Roman should take Harry more seriously, because that’s pretty much exactly what Harry does end up telling him when they’re settled on Harry’s couch, fingers wrapped around sweating bottles of beer. Sam’s got a few stitches he didn’t have before the game, and Harry’s viciously proud of Roman for that.

“What’s got you in a snit?” Sam says, after Harry grunts in response to some long, boring-ass story about his girlfriend’s sister’s friend’s whatever. “It’s not like you’re not used to us beating you.”

“Fuck off,” Harry says automatically, then, “You know how Annie kept siccing you on me about like, a dude I was dating?”

“Uh,” Sam says. “Yeah?”

“So it’s two dudes I’m dating, actually,” Harry says. “One’s Connelly. Annie knows, so you aren’t getting shit from her if you’re planning on reporting on it. And the other one?”

Harry pauses for dramatic effect, because it feels like a moment that deserves it.

 “The other one you fucking  _sucker punched_  tonight,” Harry finishes.

“What?” Sam asks, then, “Wait, two dudes?”, then,”Teammates?”, then, “ _Novak_?”

“Sorry I punched your boyfriend, Harry,” Harry supplies. “I’m a dick.”

“How was I supposed to know that?” Sam asks. “Novak, what the fuck?”

“Focus on the part where you punched my boyfriend,” Harry hisses.

“He punched me back,” Sam says.

“After a fucking cheap shot,” Harry says, and Sam, finally, looks a little chastened. Not chastened enough, but.

“I’ll say sorry or some shit if you want,” Sam says, then, a minute later, whining as Harry hands him his coat, “Now? But, I—”

“Coat on, apology time,” Harry says, and when Beau starts wagging by the door, “Yeah yeah, you can come see your best bud.”

Beau tugs on the leash basically the second they’re outside, right in the direction of Roman’s. Harry bets if he let him off, he’d run the whole way there. Doggy dates are the highlight of his life, up there with his peanut butter snacks and his very battered sock monkey. Sock monkey used to be his best friend, but he’s been usurped by Zuza.

“C’mon, Beau, play a little harder to get,” Harry says, but Beau isn’t listening.

It isn’t a long walk, but Sam whines about how cold it is the whole fucking way, keeps asking how much further, like he’s a five year old on a road trip, so it feels about a hundred times longer than it is. He’s starting to rethink this. He maybe should have started rethinking it earlier, but it’s obviously too late now. If they turn around Sam will just bitch about the cold the whole way back.

He can hear the TV blaring even from the porch, and blows out a breath. That sounds like Game of Thrones. They’re supposed to watch Game of Thrones  _together._ Never mind that Harry’s already seen it, Roman’s  _also_ already seen it, so they watch it together for Evan’s edification. Fucking rude. 

“Take this,” he says to Sam, handing over Beau’s leash before he digs around for the spare key Roman gave him.

“Wait, are you like, living here?” Sam asks.

“We mostly stay at mine,” Harry says. “But you were kind of in the way.”

“We like…three of you,” Sam says. “Like. It’s serious? With you…three?”

“Yep,” Harry says. “We like three of us are serious.”

“S’weird,” Sam mumbles.

“Go fuck yourself,” Harry says.

“I’m not dissing it or anything,” Sam says.

“Right Samuel,” Harry says. “Weird’s usually a compliment.”

“You’re usually weird,” Sam says, then dodges before Harry can kick him in the shin. “So like, whatever works?”

“I’m not talking to you,” Harry says, unlocking the door and taking his dog back.

“I’m breaking in,” Harry calls out, and the TV goes quiet before Roman comes out into the hall, dodging Beau as he makes a beeline for the living room, and presumably Zuza, the second Harry unclips him.

“Hey,” Roman says. “Wrapped up—” then, “Uh. Hey.”

“Sam’s here to apologize,” Harry says, then elbows Sam in the side when he doesn’t say anything.

“Hey, bro,” Sam says, then. “Uh. Sorry about the whole um. Punching you thing.”

“Hey, s’the game,” Roman says. “Shit, got you, huh?”

“Huh?” Sam says, then, raising a hand to the stitches by his brow, “Oh, yeah. S’the game.”

Harry rolls his eyes at Evan, who gives him a vaguely sheepish shrug in response. Stupid macho posturing bullshit.

“And hey, ‘grats on the whole, like, thing you’ve got going,” Sam says. “Or like. I guess I should say sorry, since you’re stuck with Harry?”

“Hey,” Harry says. “A, fuck you. B, fuck–”

“You want a drink, Chalmers?” Roman asks, and ‘obviously’ is almost out of Harry’s mouth before realizes Roman wasn’t talking to him.

“Oh no,” Harry says, “No no no.”

“That’d be cool,” Sam says, and nudges Harry aside with frustrating ease when Harry tries to make himself a human barricade between him and the kitchen.

“I brought him here to mortify him, not to have you invite him in,” Harry hisses to Roman as Evan, like a total dork, offers Sam his hand to shake and asks what kind of beer he likes.

“I’m being a good host,” Roman says.

“Did he knock your head?” Harry asks. “He fucking—”

“S’the game,” Roman says, smirking as Harry is reduced to sputtering incoherent rage at him.

“And don’t think I didn’t hear you watching Game of Thrones,” Harry says, when he regains the ability to speak.

“Evan insisted on watching the last episode because I fell asleep halfway through,” Roman says. He snored on Harry’s shoulder until Harry nudged him upright too. “Didn’t want me to miss anything.”

“But you’ve already seen it,” Harry says.

“Yeah, I told him that, but,” Roman says. 

“Evan,” Harry supplies.

“That pretty much sums it up, yeah,” Roman says. “Should we be leaving him alone with your brother?”

“Fuck no,” Harry says, and takes it double time into the kitchen to find Evan peering at Sam’s phone and earnestly complimenting his dogs while Sam preens.

“How the fuck does he–” Roman says.

“I don’t know,” Harry says.  


	16. Joe’s Wedding (Pt. 3)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part one is [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9533699/chapters/23152785) and part two is [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9533699/chapters/23152803).

David hasn’t been to a wedding before. His parents went to a lot — co-workers and contacts, like a more festive version of the conferences and banquets, and David liked those nights the same way he liked the banquets — Mary Anne let him stay up late and they’d spend the night watching hockey, the living room David’s domain for once.

He knows what weddings entail, obviously, because there are few things depicted more frequently in media — though he imagines someone objecting to the marriage happens less in real life, along with people being stood up at the altar, or at least he hopes that’s the case — but it’s still the first time he’ll be experiencing it, surrounded by strangers and divisional rivals, and — yes, thankfully Kiro and Emily, and Jake, and his sisters, who he’s not completely comfortable with but does at least know.

He doesn’t want to let Jake know he’s nervous about it, because he’s been so happy that David agreed. It also sounds ridiculous — it’s not his wedding, he’s not in the wedding party. He doesn’t know Forster well, and he’s never even met Forster’s fiancée. But Kiro never judges him even for saying ridiculous things — or at least if he does, he doesn’t show it — and the next day after lunch David mentions it.

“It’s just a party in fancy clothes,” Kiro says. “After Joe and Jenn pledge to spend rest of lives together.”

His smile is — David knows Kiro well enough to know exactly what it means.

“Have you bought a ring for Emily yet?” David asks, and Kiro pinches him. “Ow!”

“We don’t talk about,” Kiro whispers, like Emily might hear, even though she went out shopping with Jake and his sisters. Something about accessories. David’s relieved no one forced him to go along. Some people, including Jake, seem to enjoy shopping and David just…doesn’t get it.

“You can stay close to me and Em,” Kiro offers, like David was planning on doing anything else.

*

As a groomsman Jake has to go to the rehearsal dinner, and David apparently starts staying close to Kiro and Emily early, eating dinner in the backyard while Orange balefully looks on through the sliding doors. The heat’s intense, even as the sun starts to fall, and relief only comes when it’s dim enough they have to turn the patio lanterns on, Jake letting himself in the back gate, sleeves of his dress shirt rolled up over his elbows. He looks comfortable in it, the heat, David means, and David doesn’t know how, but he supposes Jake’s used to it by now.

The wedding isn’t until mid-afternoon, but it’s not really like they can do anything else with their day, especially since Jake has to head out hours before David to help Joe get ready.

David wonders if he’ll have to do another thing he’s seen, the whole talking the bride or groom out of cold feet, but Jake laughs when he asks.

“You think you’re going to have to talk Volkie into sticking around before his wedding?” Jake asks, like said wedding is a foregone conclusion. Which, to be fair, it is.

“Well,” David says. “No.”

“Yeah,” Jake says. “I’m not worried about Joe getting cold feet. More worried about Joe getting so nervous he stutters all the way through his vows. Don’t tell anyone I said that.”

“Who would I tell?” David asks.

“Don’t tell Volkie I said that,” Jake specifies. “Joe will kill me if he’s chirped in the locker room about insider knowledge.”

“It won’t be insider knowledge if he does stutter through his vows,” David points out.

Jake scowls at him. “But he won’t.”

“But you just said—” David says.

“Volkie’s going to kill you if you talk like this when you’re his best man,” Jake says.

“Why are you just assuming I’m going to be his best man?” David asks, and Jake doesn’t even bother to answer, just snorts at him as he lets David re-tie his tie, which isn’t hanging right.

*

Jake drops him off at Kiro and Emily’s on his way to the venue, and what was already a hot morning when he got there is a brutal afternoon when they set out themselves. David’s more than used to black tie, though Kiro eschewed a suit jacket, and David is faintly envious, because it’s sweltering out. Thankfully both ceremony and reception are indoors, because the short walk from the car has David sweating, even the light cotton of his suit jacket suffocating him.

The sole topic of conversation amongst guests outside seems to be complaining about the heat, which David supposes isn’t surprising, considering both the bride and groom are Canadian, though he doesn’t understand why they don’t just go inside. There are a few reserved rows in front, presumably for the families, but the rows aren’t split into bride and groom sides like David expected. They’re told to sit wherever, and Emily thankfully steers them away from where the Panthers have clumped together, settling them among an older group.

Rather than the stiff confines of a church, the ceremony’s in the same event venue as the reception, and the air conditioning’s set so high David thinks all the women in sleeveless dresses must be freezing. He thought Emily was out of her mind when she ran back into the house for a shawl, but now he gets it.

The ceremony’s not traditional, by which David supposes he means not religious. The woman marrying them is related to Jenn somehow; David can’t gather exactly what the relation is, but she tells a story about Jenn as a child with the knowledge of someone who was there. The vows were clearly personalized, and despite Jake’s concern, Forster doesn’t stutter, though he does frequently stop, gather a shaky breath, and David’s afraid every time that he won’t start again. He feels like he’s witnessing something personal, something he shouldn’t, wasn’t invited to see, though, of course, he was, and he cuts his eyes away as they’re instructed to kiss and the group starts wildly applauding, someone loudly whistling — David assumes a Panther.

Afterwards, everyone’s talking after about how beautiful a ceremony it was, united in the same way they were talking about the heat before, and David’s a little uncomfortable with how many faces show visible tears, red-eyed. The wedding party went off to take pictures, and David hopes they won’t all be red-eyed in them too, because Jenn cried through half the ceremony, and when David snuck a glance at Jake, he was rubbing at his own eyes.

“Jakey cries at everything,” Allison says, when her and Natalie join up with them. “Everything.”

“Pretty much,” Natalie agrees, and David politely pretends not to notice her eyes are red too, though that’s completely undermined as Kiro solicitously hands her a tissue.

“Stop looking uncomfortable,” Kiro chides him under his breath. “Fun part now.”

“Fun,” David repeats, and does his best to look forward to it.


	17. Joe's Wedding (Pt. 4)

David’s nervous about the reception. It’s one thing to go to the ceremony, where there are limited opportunities to interact, everyone’s attention on the bride and groom, not fellow guests, but he knows that isn’t going to be the case for the rest of the day. He’ll be sitting with strangers, forced to make small talk, maybe asked why he’s here. He still hasn’t figured out an answer to that one: well, he has, but he hasn’t figured out an answer that avoids the truth.

Joe and Jenn stand together by the door, greeting everyone, so there’s a line, like they’re trying to get past bouncers into a nightclub. David’s lost Kiro and Emily somewhere, and he shifts from foot to foot while he waits, trying to decide what he’s supposed to say to them without Kiro as a buffer. Congratulations, of course, but he doesn’t know Forster well, doesn’t know his wife at all, and he imagines it’s going to be awkward, like he’s gate crashed. Wedding crashed? They made a movie about that and everything. The Remparts watched it far too often on the bus.

“Congratulations,” David says, when it’s his turn, shakes Forster’s outstretched hand.

“Glad you could come, Chapman,” Forster — Joe, since they’re both Forster now — says.

Jenn elbows him in the side.

“David,” Joe amends.

“Thanks for inviting me,” David says, hoping it doesn’t sound too stiff.

“’course,” Joe says, then, leaning in a little, “He’s really happy you came. Wouldn’t shut up about it.”

“I—” David says. He’s not sure how to respond to that, and he doesn’t want to hold up the line. “Congratulations again.”

“Thanks,” Joe says, and Jenn gives David a hug, even though he’s never met her before.

*

David keeps waiting for someone to ask him why he’s here, how he knows Joe. He wonders what the Panthers must think, the two — well, four, including Joe and Kiro — who are aware of their relationship aside. Wonders whether Joe’s bluffed about them knowing one another, or said he’s a guest of Kiro’s, though David can’t imagine that being particularly convincing — who allows a teammate to bring an opponent along, especially when Emily’s already his plus one?

The question does come up from the people at his table, but it’s limited to ‘bride or groom?’, and while David’s blinking at it, Kiro says ‘Groom. Teammates. And Emily, my girlfriend.’, and apparently none of them — cousins of the bride — pay any attention to the Panthers — because they seem to include David in that statement.

David doesn’t mean to sound arrogant, but he’s sure someone recognises him, must know he doesn’t belong. The Panthers, of course, but if Joe’s family follows his career at all they’d know he wasn’t a teammate, and they must wonder. He really should have thought of something, an evasion, if not a lie. He’s not a good liar, doesn’t like it, and the chance for exposure is too high.

Jake comes by right before dinner, and David looks around to see if anyone notices, but if they do, they’d just see Jake greeting a teammate — he dropped by a table exclusively populated by Panthers and their significant others first, so stopping to talk to Kiro after probably doesn’t look strange.

Jake settles a hand on the back of David’s chair, as he says something low to Kiro that makes him laugh, and David resists the urge to lean away from it. Jake’s not even touching him, so it’d look odder if he did.

“David,” Jake says, and even if someone’s listening, even if the people at the table know hockey more than it appears they do, they’ve collided enough times at hockey events. It’s more like greeting a colleague than an opponent. Not that Jake’s — well, he’s both of those, technically.

“Jake,” David says, and Jake gives him a quick smile, squeezes his shoulder before leaning over him to kiss Emily’s cheek like he hadn’t seen her earlier today, so maybe he’s also a little caught up in the charade.

*

There are a lot of speeches, a rotating cast of family: Jenn’s father, Joe’s brother, Joe’s father, and so on, and when the woman across from him refills her wine glass, David wonders if the bottles will even last until dinner.

The one from the best man even David can tell is awkward, and that’s without Kiro discreetly wincing as Joe’s brother once again pauses for laughter that doesn’t come.

“Jake’s going to go on about how he could have written a better speech,” Emily murmurs to David.

“Well,” David says. “He could have.”

Emily snorts. “Don’t encourage the vendetta,” she says, but honestly, he would have been a better best man. He’s a captain.

“Captaining a hockey team isn’t a directly transferable skill,” Emily says, but David disagrees.

Kiro’s befriended the entire table by the time the first course arrives, chattering away with them about hunting, which as far as David is aware, he’s never done in his life. David pokes through his salad, keeping his head down except when he glances around to see if anyone’s looking at him. The last time he does it, Cody Gallagher, at the Panthers table across the room, catches his eye, and then starts wildly waving at him. David slinks down further in his chair, but Gallagher keeps waving, and now heads are turning to see what he’s waving at, so David waves back as quickly and deniably as possible before hunching back over his salad.

“David, come to the bar with me?” Emily asks,

There’s wine provided for them at the table, but maybe she doesn’t like it — her glass is mostly full — and David doesn’t mind going to the bar, which is set back from the rest of the room, no one there but a bartender who’s poking at her phone.

Emily totters a little as she gets up — David remembers her saying something about only wearing heels for weddings and hockey events, because otherwise Kiro towers over her in photos  — and David offers his arm, which she takes. “What’s up?” she asks.

“What do you mean?” David asks.

“You look like you’re waiting to get stabbed,” Emily says. “So what’s up?”

“I’m just wondering—” David says. “I don’t know if anyone at the table recognises me, but others must, and I just — they’re going to wonder why I’m here, and—”

“David,” Emily says. “I mean this in the nicest way possible?”

“Okay?” David asks.

“People aren’t as interested in you as you think they are,” Emily says, and when David opens his mouth, “I don’t mean the media. I know the media’s on you a lot. I mean like, generally? People don’t care. They came to see their cousin get married and get a free vacation, they don’t care why you are.”

“Them, yes,” David says. “But they aren’t—”

“And people who follow hockey are just going to think you know Joe from somewhere,” she says. “Worlds or Juniors or maybe you train together or go to the same golf course or something. It’s not weird for hockey players to know each other, David.”

“Yeah,” David says.

“You want a beer?” Emily asks. “That white’s so sharp I think I cut my tongue on it.”

“Sure,” David says, and sips at it as Emily waits for a complicated looking cocktail, grateful for the reprieve.

*

Dinner keeps getting interrupted by everyone clinking their cutlery against their glasses, which apparently requires the bride and groom to kiss. It’s awful, the idea of kissing on cue, hundreds of sets of eyes on you. He supposes, after publicly pledging your love for one another, a few kisses in front of everyone isn’t exactly a stretch, but he can’t imagine ever doing that. Even if it was - he can’t imagine doing it.

It just. It’s private. Relationships should be private. It’s not necessarily that he doesn’t want to see it — though honestly, he doesn’t — it’s that he shouldn’t. No one should. Some things are meant for the people in the relationship and no one else.

Not only that, but Joe and Jenn must be starving, interrupted seven times a course, perhaps even mid-bite, forced to swallow and kiss once again.

Kiro pokes his cheek. “Something grumpy going on in the Davidson brain,” he observes.

“Not grumpy,” David says. “Just —” He lowers his voice, because Jenn’s cousins are right there. “Don’t you think it’s kind of crass to force people to kiss?”

Kiro looks over at Emily.

“Yeah,” Emily says. “I’ll go get him another beer.”

“I’m not done this one yet,” David protests, but Emily’s already on her way.


	18. Joe's Wedding (Pt. 5)

Once dinner’s over, everyone starts to mingle, which is something David doesn’t really know how to do. It’s hard enough when he knows people — even at Caps events he’ll spend the majority of his time with Oleg or Robbie or Raf — but here he doesn’t really know anyone except for Kiro and Emily — and Jake, of course, but David’s hardly going to make things obvious by sticking near him — and he sticks to the assigned table, sipping beer as Kiro and Emily alternately flit out to talk to people and come back to sit with him.

He knows it probably feels to them like they’re babysitting him, and he feels bad about it, but he can’t manage to bring himself to join them in what seems like a very enthusiastic conversation with several Panthers.

Jake spends more time on the dance floor than not, dances with his sisters, Emily, the mother of the bride, a bridesmaid David believes is Joe’s sister, certainly looks enough like him to be. He looks comfortable out there, though even to David’s inexpert eyes he’s not a very good dancer.

He’s down to his dress shirt, rolled up at the sleeves, a few buttons undone to reveal the thick column of his neck, the hollow of his throat, coat and tie nowhere to be seen. He’d gelled his hair that morning, but it’s come a little loose, getting long enough again that he keeps pushing it back out of his eyes without seeming to realise he’s doing it. He looks happy and relaxed, and David might resent it, that ease, but it looks so good on him.

“You’re looking,” Kiro murmurs beside him.

“Thanks,” David says, and tries to stop.

*

As a member of the wedding party Jake’s pretty much obligated to stay until the end, but he told David in advance not to feel like he had to, and when the older and younger guests start peeling away and the Panthers start to loudly and drunkenly congregate, David feels more aware than ever that he’s the odd man out.

Kiro’s joined the Panthers again, punching Gallagher in the shoulder, and David fiddles with a napkin at their empty table until Emily leans over him. “Wanna head out?” she asks.

“Kiro’s—”

“Kir’s going to come in plastered at like three in the morning,” Emily says. “I’m too old for that shit.”

“You’re his age, aren’t you?” David asks. They’re only four years older than him and Jake.

“I’m too smart for that shit,” Emily amends. “Come back to ours, we’ve got a guest room. And quiet. And a cat to pet. Win-win-win.”

“But Jake’s—” David says.

Emily pulls out her phone. “I just let him know he’s welcome to come back to ours with Kir,” she says. “Cool?”

“Okay,” David says, then, “Thanks, you really don’t have to leave on my account.”

“If I don’t get out of heels and into PJs in the next hour I’m going to kill someone,” Emily says. “Trust me, I want to leave as much as you do.”

It takes them a long time to leave, since Emily knows all of the Panthers and their significant others, and mentioning she’s heading out gets a chorus of protests, people trying to convince her to stay, while David keeps back a bit, not wanting to lose her in the crowd but not wanting to get drawn into the conversation himself.

They’ve made it almost to the door when Gallagher comes over with his girlfriend, who says, “Katie told me you were heading out?”, and the cycle starts again.

David nods awkwardly at Gallagher as Emily hugs his girlfriend goodbye, then tenses when Gallagher unexpectedly pulls him into a hug as well.

“Um,” David says.

“Good to see you, buddy,” Gallagher says, squeezing uncomfortably tight.

David honestly doesn’t think they’ve talked, unless you count on the ice, where Gallagher spends more time chirping than skating. To his credit, though, he’s never said a word about Jake to David in that context, and David knows it’s probably more because him and Jake are close than anything to do with David, but.

“You too?” David manages. This hug feels abnormally long. Most hugs do, to him, but this one is – very long.

“Okay, Gally,” Emily says, sounding like she’s laughing. “He’s scowling, you can let go now.”

David didn’t realise he was scowling. He thought he probably looked confused, considering he is.

Gallagher lets go of him all at once. “Later!” he says, and darts off before David can say anything.

Emily’s still laughing at him when they get into one of the towncars provided. “His face!” she says. “Your face!”

“It’s not that funny,” David says.

“I think this qualifies as Gally’s greatest prank of all time,” Emily says.

“He hugged me as a prank?” David asks.

“Probably,” Emily says, and David’s slightly mystified how that works, but honestly, he’s learned sometimes it’s better not to ask.


	19. Joe’s Wedding (Pt. 6)

Emily changes into pyjamas as soon as they get home, offers David a pair of Kiro’s sweats, a Caps t-shirt with his own name and number on the back, because Kiro’s ridiculous and apparently bought his shirt.

She makes popcorn and a margarita for herself, gets David a beer — a Ontario craft beer that must have been hard to find in Florida — and they watch a few episodes of Planet Earth while Orange sleeps on his lap.

“Kir’s right,” she says. “She likes you best.”

“I’m sure that’s not true,” David says, and she snorts.

David’s mostly asleep in front of the TV, Emily snoring from her spot on the armchair, when there’s a commotion in the hall, and Orange digs her claws into his thigh before leaping off his lap, Emily waking up with a start that nearly ends with her tumbling onto the floor.

What sounds like a shoe hits the floor, and David ventures out to find Kiro and Jake with their arms around each other’s shoulders, Jake trying to kick his shoe off without untying it first. He’s succeeded with the first, though, judging by his socked foot.

“You two look friendly,” Emily says.

“I’m holding him up,” Kiro says.

“Hey,” Jake protests. “Nu uh. I’m holding  _you_  up.”

“Do I want to know how drunk you are?” Emily asks.

Jake weaves alarmingly, and David takes a step forward, braces him from the other side.

“You take your man and I’ll take mine?” Emily asks.

“Do you — I can help with Kiro,” David says, because Emily probably can’t support him on her own.

“If he goes down I’m leaving him where he falls,” Emily says.

“Rude,” Kiro says, but he’s walking pretty straight once he disentangles himself from Jake, so David doesn’t think that’s likely to happen.

He also thinks that Kiro was telling the truth about holding Jake up, because he leans heavily on David after David unties his shoe for him, worried he he bends over he’ll fall over, and when they get to the spare room David practically has to wrestle Jake out of his clothes, because he’s no help himself.

“You going to brush your teeth?” David asks, and Jake groans and practically collapses onto the bed, mattress springs squeaking alarmingly as he mumbles something about shots. David supposes that means no. “Do you need a garbage can?”

“No,” Jake croaks, but after David brushes his teeth with one of the spares Kiro keeps under the sink, he grabs the bathroom’s trash can and puts it beside the bed, just in case.

As soon as David lies down, Jake rolls half onto him. Jake’s breath is potently alcoholic, but David doesn’t have much faith in his ability to get him up to brush his teeth, so he endures it as Jake mumbles something David doesn’t understand, presses a sloppy kiss to David’s ear, and then falls asleep in what must be less than a minute.

*

Jake’s drooling into the pillow when David wakes up the next morning, and according to Emily, who’s sipping coffee at the island in the kitchen, Kiro’s doing the same, albeit with the addition of a cat pretending she’s a scarf. David’s still worried one day Orange will smother Kiro in the night.

He makes himself tea while Emily chops fruit for breakfast, silent in a way that doesn’t feel uncomfortable. Orange winds her way around his legs, followed by Jake stumbling downstairs in his dress pants from yesterday and the Chapman shirt that David left folded on the foot of the bed, stretching tight over his shoulders.

“How’re you feeling?” David asks, caught between worrying Jake’s stretching the shirt out of shape and lingering on how it clings to his body like a second skin.

“Kind of like death?” Jake says, then shakes his head a little, like he’s testing it. “Ah, nah, I’m just mild death, coffee and breakfast will probably cure it.”

“Breakfast I can do, and coffee’s in the pot,” Emily says. “Eggs and toast and fruit okay?”

“You’re the best, Em,” Jake says. He does seem much better once he’s eaten, which is a little surprising. If David had as much to drink as Jake — and he doesn’t even know how much that was, but he can imagine — he doubts he’d be able to get out of bed, let alone eat, drink something acidic as coffee, but then, David never has that much to drink, so it’s not particularly pertinent.

They order an Uber not long after Kiro gets out of bed, cheerful and apparently unscathed, which gets Jake scowling at him and muttering something about Russians. David doesn’t think that’s quite fair, but then, Oleg is the only Capital he’s never seen very drunk or hungover, and while part of that is that Oleg drinks less than most of them, he drank a lot one night last season, and seemed perfectly normal, both when he went to his room, and the next morning, and Robbie muttered something that sounded a lot like Jake’s mutter, but quieter, because Robbie’s afraid of Oleg for some ridiculous reason.

Jake refuses to relinquish the Chapman shirt, and David expects Kiro to argue, but he just smirks and says he’ll buy another. Thankfully Jake buttons his dress shirt over it, because David doesn’t really want him wearing David’s name in public. It — David won’t deny that he feels something…good, looking at Jake in it, but Jake seen wearing a Capitals shirt, especially that Capitals shirt, would be a headache if someone saw it, exactly the sort of thing Dave told them to avoid.

“I hope that wasn’t, like,” Jake says, in the Uber. “Like, you had an okay time last night, right?”

“It was nice,” David says, which is mostly true, because as awkward as a room full of people he doesn’t know was, Kiro and Emily softened it into something closer to comfortable. He honestly preferred watching TV with Emily and Orange after, but he knows it meant a lot to Jake that he was there, and he can handle a little awkwardness if it makes Jake happy.

“I’m happy for them,” David adds, which is entirely true. It may have also been awkward watching people so publicly display their  commitment to one another, their happiness together, but Joe’s one of Jake’s closest friends, and David wishes the best for them.

“Sorry I couldn’t really see a lot of you,” Jake says.

“You had responsibilities,” David says, which is something he understands, and honestly, he wouldn’t have been comfortable if Jake had stuck close to him, not surrounded by people who might say something about it. It sounds like another thing Dave would explicitly tell them not to do. “I had Emily and Kiro.”

“Yeah,” Jake says. “It was okay?”

“It was okay,” David confirms. “It was good.”

“Good,” Jake says.

*

Jake holds his hand out when they get into his house, and David blinks at it.

“Dance with me?” Jake asks. “Since we couldn’t at the reception?”

“I’m not dancing with you,” David says.

“C’mon,” Jake whines.

“There isn’t even music,” David says.

“If I put on music will you dance with me?” Jake asks hopefully, and David winces at his miscalculation.

“No,” David says. “I don’t dance.”

“It’d basically just be hugging while moving our feet a little,” Jake says.

“Then why don’t we just hug?” David asks, and Jake’s got his arms around him before David even finishes.

It’s not like David minds hugging Jake, and he relaxes into it, lacing his fingers and pressing his cheek to Jake’s broad shoulder.

Jake shuffles his feet a bit.

“Stop it,” David says, then, “Jake, stop!”, biting back a laugh as Jake tries to dip him.


	20. Matt/Aaron; give and take

“How do you survive this?” Aaron asks through chattering teeth.

“Oh buddy,” Matt says.

Aaron doesn’t like the way he says it. “What?” he asks.

“Have you looked at the forecast for the week?” Matt asks.

Aaron does. And then immediately wishes he hadn’t, because no. Not happening.

“I’m getting on the next flight home,” Aaron says.

“No you’re not,” Matt says.

No, he’s not. “I’m not going outside until I fly out,” he says. He can swing that, between the underground parking garage, the PATH that snakes through downtown, an underground warren of restaurants and shops and everything he needs to survive without freezing his lungs of. There’s an entrance less than a block from his condo — maybe he can sprint that? 

“You know,” Matt says. “Right now it’s twelve degrees colder where I’m from, so this is pretty nice.”

“Celsius?” Aaron asks, appalled.

“Celsius,” Matt confirms.

“How did you even live to adulthood?” Aaron asks.

“They leave us naked in the woods in winter,” Matt says. “If we survive, we’re granted Canadian citizenship. You haven’t heard about that?”

Aaron snorts.

“C’mere,” Matt says, and rubs Aaron’s freezing hands back into something like life. 

Life feels like pain.

*

“This is hell,” Matt whispers. “This is hell, and I’m in it.”

Hell, apparently, is a beautiful sunny day. It isn’t like Toronto gets, muggy, almost swampy with humidity, sometimes smog: it’s a pure desert heat, and while he’d prefer an ocean breeze or something to cut through it, this isn’t even that bad for Phoenix. Matt should try it in the summer.

Matt stares at him when he says that. “It gets worse?” he asks. “It’s forty degrees, Aaron! Without the humidity!”

“There…isn’t any humidity,” Aaron says. Aaron never understood why Canadians seemed to add ‘with the humidity’ or ‘with the windchill’ to everything they said, right up until he experienced a supposedly 15 degree day get knocked down to -10 when the wind blew. Which it did. Constantly. So now he gets it. The wind chill, at least. Also, he appreciates the weather even more now. He thought at the time he’d never be warm again. 

“I’m never coming to a game with you again,” Matt complains.

Aaron remembers that Matt didn’t tease him even a little when he claimed he was going to die that day, so he decides to be nice.

“Okay, babe,” Aaron says, then, “C’mere.”, wrapping an arm around his shoulders.

“Don’t touch me,” Matt groans, but he leans into Aaron’s arm as he says it. 


	21. David, Robbie, Kiro, assorted hockey fam; secret boss

“You know,” Robbie says. “This is kind of ruining your Don of the Russian mafia thing.”

David blinks. “Pardon me?” he asks.

“‘Pardon me’,” Robbie mutters. “It’s probably not Don. Pretty sure that’s just the  _mafia_  mafia. I bet Volkie knows.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” David says, rather than ‘pardon me’ again, because Robbie’s response to that was less than informative.

“Like, you’ve got Kurmazov and his whole clan and Volkie and that terrifying dude that could be Kurmazov’s twin—”

“Slava?” David asks. He doesn’t particularly look like Oleg, but David doesn’t really know Oleg’s actual brother well, and Kiro, who does, paints him as the opposite of terrifying, unless you’re terrified of doing shots.

Which David maybe is. Well, not terrified, just uninterested. He doesn’t think him and Dmitry Kurmazov would have much in common.

“I mean, I guess you could be adopting Sanchez as like, your capo, because Kurmazov would be the consigliere — really gotta ask Volkie what they call those — but —”

“I’m so confused,” David says.

“Your Russian mafia thing,” Robbie says. “You can’t just start inviting Canadians.”

David still doesn’t understand, really, except —

“Don’t call them the Russian mafia,” David says, frowning.

“Volkie keeps calling you guys that,” Robbie says. “Says you’re the ambassador, but I’m pretty sure you’re the boss.”

Of course Kiro did. And of course Robbie’s run with it. David sometimes regrets introducing them.

“But now that you’ve got like, your rookie,” Robbie says, “You’ve kind of fucked with it. You couldn’t have adopted Ivanov?”

“Why do you keep talking about adoption?” David asks, more confused than ever, and Robbie just smirks and doesn’t explain, which is frustrating.

*

David calls Kiro after practice.

“Stop telling Robbie you’re the Russian mafia,” David says.

“We,” Kiro says. “ _We_ , Davidson. Bardi says we have new Canadian member?”

“We’re not the mafia!” David says.

“Rookie you like?” Kiro presses, like he hasn’t heard him. “Sanchez?”

“I guess?” David says, because protesting clearly isn’t working, and that was who Robbie was talking about.

“Sanchezov sounds strange,” Kiro muses. “But I think I like it.”

David sighs.

“Don’t worry,” Kiro says. “I think of one for you. Chapmanovich? Chapmanov? Which you prefer?”

“I’m hanging up on you,” David threatens.

“Not true,” Kiro says, and it isn’t.


	22. Andy/Derek, Carruthers fam; winners

If Andy wasn’t positive he’d be found, and then mocked, he would be hiding right now.

Maybe he can turn it into a game? Grab some of the kids from the backyard, tell them they’re playing hide and seek?

“Andrew,” Derek wheedles, and Andy can jump into the hall closet or he can give into the inevitable.

He stays where he is, again, only because he knows Derek will look for him, and then find him, and then make a lot of jokes about coming out of the closet, and Andy will still have to play the Newlywed game with the Carruthers.

*

It starts out fine. Andy was worried about sex questions coming up, but half the people at the table are related by blood, so that’s probably something they don’t want to know about one another. Andy doesn’t want to know it either, or for anyone else to know, but he;s aware he’s a little more…private about that stuff than most people, and especially the Carruthers, who are all over-sharers about everything.

Him and Derek get the lead early — it’s easy to know about stuff like favourite food or TV show or what their pet peeves are when you not only live with them, but work together, spend basically all your time together, and Andy starts to feel okay about it, wonder why he was reluctant in the first place.

It doesn’t last, of course.

“What does your partner find most annoying about you?” Adam reads, and Andy just…blanks. Obviously there’s got to be something, but Derek isn’t a complainer — well, he is, but Andy can’t think of any habits or anything Derek’s complained about.

He scribbles down ‘won’t do karaoke’, because that was Derek’s most recent complaint, when Andy sat out and watched a good chunk of the Senators, lead by Derek, butcher song after song. Derek somehow wasn’t the worst. That, Andy thinks, went to Sven, though he also thinks Sven was singing badly on purpose, and knows very, very well that Derek wasn’t.

‘Nothing’, Derek flips over with a flourish, and the entire table boos.

Andy slinks down in his chair.

“But that one’s good too, Bowie,” Derek says. “You’re so good at this.”

“Oh my god,” Ivy says. “Kick them out.”

Adam starts chanting it, and everyone else picks it up, three Carruthers and their significant others in perfect unison.

“You’re just jealous,” Derek yells over them, the baby brother he always reverts to around his siblings, and kisses Andy’s flaming cheek.


	23. Canadiennes; bread winner

Ice is slippery. Obviously.

There’s some scientific reason for that, Veronique’s sure. She dropped science classes the second she was able, and never paid much attention in them in the first place, but she’s learned generally there’s a scientific reason for things.

So yes, ice. Slippery.

No one has ever brought that constantly to everyone’s attention like Laura does.

*

The thing is, Laura’s good. Laura’s really, really good. Laura’s second on the team for assists, third for goals. There is absolutely no one better to have on the power play, and it’s not rare for her to strip the puck from an opponent and get on a breakaway.

But Laura is also —

“I’d ask if she was still wearing her skate guards, but —” Carly murmurs during practice as Laura goes over the boards only to land on her ass, and Veronique presses her lips together, because it’s not kind of laugh. Of course, she’s one of the only ones not laughing, including Laura, grinning as Smitty offers her a hand up.

Once she’s hit her stride, there’s no hint of it, no hint that the ice is anything but somewhere she’s lived entire life, which it is. She skates faster than most of the people Veronique’s ever played with, it’s just — stopping. And starting. A sometimes she seems to find a divot that absolutely no one else has noticed. Invisible divot. One that immediately teleports away.

It’s Laura who suggests the ‘Concord down’ fund. It starts as a little piggybank in the room that Laura puts a loonie into for every fall, and soon others are starting to do the same. They have to upgrade to a bigger bank. Much bigger. By the end of the season it’s so heavy it’s almost impossible to lift, and they’re not exactly slouches.

“I’m buying you all dinner,” Laura says, and she can actually afford a pretty nice place with the proceeds, though the waiter doesn’t look particularly impressed when she pays him in rolls of coins.


	24. Jaya, Charlie; take two

It’s funny, because Charlie’s one of the most effusive people Jaya’s ever met. It’s like she speaks in exclamation points all the time. Exciting news, anything annoying, somebody that pissed her off, something even a little unexpected, she’s loudly going to tell you about it. Charlie uses basically the opposite of an indoor voice at all times. Jaya imagines she was chided for it from kindergarten on. It clearly didn’t work.

So honestly, Jaya thought this would be perfect for her, the two of them tapped to shoot a quick spot for the Furies, a fifteen second ad for TV, thirty seconds for the radio. If anything, she was worried that it’d sound like she was mumbling compared to Charlie, even if she spoke in her regular voice. She’d been practicing in front of the mirror, trying to speak loudly, but without shouting. It doesn’t come very naturally to her. She doubts the director’s going to be impressed.

Except in the end, it’s Charlie who has the most trouble. In front of the camera, Charlie’s stiff, monotone. Jaya doesn’t think it’s the cameras, because she’s been around her during breathless postgame interviews, and she’s fine. It’s not like they’re acting or anything: they’re just being themselves, so that can’t be it.

“Give us a second?” Jaya says, after a fifth failed take in which Jaya fake smiled until her cheeks hurt while Charlie mumbled about ‘the excitement’. “Charlie, c’mere?”

“What’s up?” Charlie asks, following her out into the hall. “If you’re uncomfortable I can—”

“What’s wrong?” Jaya says.

“What do you mean?” Charlie asks.

“You’re talking like a zombie,” Jaya says.

“Hey,” Charlie says, like she’s about to argue, then slumps a little. “I dunno, I keep worrying I’m going to forget a line.”

“Okay, so stop focusing on them,” Jaya says.

“But I—”

“You’ve got them down cold,” Jaya says.

“Because I’m focusing!” Charlie says loudly. Jaya never thought she’d miss Charlie volume so much.

“No one cares if you screw up a word, Char,” Jaya says. “It’s not like people watching have the script in front of them, and this isn’t live. We can do retakes.”

Charlie blows out a breath. “I’ll look stupid.”

“Char,” Jaya says.

“Well usually it’s on purpose!” Charlie says, even though no, no it isn’t.

“Run through it with me a few times?” Jaya says. “Regular voice.”

“They’re waiting for us,” Charlie says.

“Better to do it now than on camera?” Jaya asks.

“Fine,” Charlie mutters. “It’s not gonna help, though.”

When they get back ten minutes later, she nails it on the first take.


	25. Mackenzie, Kyle; effortless

Obviously they’re not just talking shit when they go on and on about what a fucking star Gleeson is. Mackenzie’s played him before, knows exactly how frustrating it is, always has this thought in the back of his head, ‘if you let one in, it’s over, because he isn’t going to’. Sometimes that isn’t true. Sometimes it has been.

Mackenzie can’t say he enjoys watching Gleeson play, especially because it means he’s warming the bench, but a great save’s a great save. You don’t have to like the guy to acknowledge that, especially when that great save keeps the game scoreless.

He just — he makes it look completely effortless. Looks bored after, like he didn’t just stack his pads faster than damn light, like he just stopped something harmless, a shot straight to the logo.

If it pisses Mackenzie off, that seeming effortlessness, it seems to piss off the Russian shooter more, which is good. Getting under their skin is good. Getting under your own teammate’s skin is…less good, but Mackenzie doubts Gleeson gives a shit. Besides, Mackenzie wouldn’t admit it to anyone. That’s like the definition of poor sportsmanship. ‘This is is too fucking good, it pisses me off’ is shit you say about the enemy, not your own damn guy.

Of course, that kind of gets flipped when you’re stuck being backup, especially since Mackenzie isn’t used to it. He knows he needs to get used to it, knows it’s not like he’s going to jump right into a starter position when he’s in the NHL, even the AHL, that goalies need time to get to that spot, that experience is more important than anything.

But he doesn’t have to like it.

Mackenzie’s eyes follow the action, of course, but during stoppages in play they drift back to Gleeson. He doesn’t come back to the bench unless beckoned by the coaching staff, which only happens once, spends it hydrating, carving the blue into something more his liking with the blades of his skates, looking loose, almost comfortable, like they have a huge lead or something, rather than the actual situation.

Maybe he should look comfortable though, maybe that makes sense, because less than a minute after a stoppage he stops a disastrous looking breakaway with a apparent effortlessness, a beautiful save that gets Team Canada leaping up from their seats on the bench, the crowd roaring.

‘I could do that,’ Mackenzie thinks, but the thing is, he’s not sure he could.


	26. Harry/Evan/Roman; Sunday

Harry doesn’t think any of them planned to stay in bed all day, but that’s what happens.

Well, they’ve left bed. Sort of. The dogs needed to be fed, and so did they, and bathroom breaks are kind of a fact of life, both for them and the dogs, but if Harry adds up his time out of bed since waking up, it’s probably less than an hour.

You’d think it’d get kind of boring. And maybe it would be if it was just him there — the only times, before today, that Harry spent a full day in bed was when he was sick, so he didn’t really have the fondest memories of it — but it really isn’t. And Harry’s not just talking about like, the lazy handjobs in the morning before breakfast, or Roman’s hand petting his hair back, offering his fingers for Harry to muffle himself around while Evan carved out space for himself inside Harry, so slow it was torture. Obviously that was not boring. At all.

But the other stuff isn’t boring either: Evan curled around him, mouth against his shoulder, tracing his fingers over his side just on the edge of ticklish as Roman and Harry argue about the Yankees. The marathon of some cooking show Roman watches vaguely intently while Harry and Evan drift in and out of naps, ones that end when Roman says, ‘goddamnit’ and then disappears into the kitchen, coming back with a freaking platter of food — sandwiches, crackers, fruit, veg and dip — that they demolish while watching episode five.

When night starts falling and the dogs start getting antsy again, Harry, groaning, drags himself out of bed and bundles himself up to take them on a proper walk, comes back shivering and strips his layers before he even reaches his room, scowling to find Roman bracketing Evan, who’s heavy lidded and flushed down to his chest, mouth red and irresistible.

“Can’t even wait for me,” Harry says, climbing onto the bed and elbowing Roman in the side. “While I walk your damn dog.”

“I was warming him up for you,” Roman says, then, “Fuck, your hands are fucking freezing.”

“You’re back,” Evan says, mouth curving up, and Harry warms his mouth against his as Roman pulls the blankets up over them.


	27. Seb/Si, Bolts; preparation

This is perhaps the stupidest thing Seb has ever done.

He can practically hear Si in his head, all,  _Really, Seb, the stupidest? Are you sure? There’s a lot of competition for that spot._

And to Simon in his head, well, that really depends on how real Simon reacts.

There is really only one thing worse than Simon saying he doesn’t want to marry him, and that’s Simon saying that in front of over 20,000 people, Seb’s team, the opposing team, and also thousands of people watching it on TV able to gif his humiliation so it will never die.

Simon’s…not going to say no. He’s not. He’s had Seb since they couldn’t even tie their own shoes, and Seb knows that goes both ways, and he is not going to say no.

“What if he says no?” he wails.

“I mean,” Carey says. “You could like…not ask.”

“It’s too late,” Seb says, flopping painfully into his stall. “I got the media team involved. I got the PA guy involved! I got ThunderBug involved!”

“Because that’s what proposing needs more of,” Jess says. “Mascots.”

“ThunderBug has the ring!” Seb says. “I have to get it back.”

“You gave ThunderBug the ring?” Jess asks.

“Of course he did,” Carey mutters.

“What’s he even going to do with it?” Jess asks.

“Nothing,” Seb says. “Because I’m not doing this.”

“Seb,” Carey sighs, but Seb ignores him to call the head of their media team.

“Claire?” Seb says. “Can you get the ring back from ThunderBug? I’ve changed my mind.”

“I am not paid enough for this,” she says, but it isn’t a no.

Ten minutes later Claire arrives, and Seb’s hopes are dashed upon the rocky shores of ThunderBug’s refusal.

“ThunderBug…refuses to give back the ring,” Claire says, pinching her nose.

“What do you mean he refuses?” Seb says.

“Thunder— for fuck’s sakes, this is stupid, Gary says you haven’t shut up about this for months, and you’re going to regret it if you don’t do it now, so he’s not giving the ring back.”

“Gary?” Jess asks.

“ThunderBug,” Claire says. “Gary’s ThunderBug.”

“I can’t believe you’re friends with our mascot,” Jess says.

“Gary’s nice,” Seb says, then frowns. “Usually.”

“Seb,” Claire says. “C’mon, you’ve been planning this for months, and there’s no way we can do this during playoffs, so this is your last chance until October. You want to wait until October?”

“Why can’t I do it during playoffs?” Seb asks.

“One of you want to take that?” Claire asks.

“No,” Jess says.

“Fuck no,” Carey says. “You are not fucking proposing to your boyfriend during playoffs, I will strangle you myself.”

Seb blows out a breath. “Okay,” he says. “I’m doing this. Gary has the ring?”

“Yeah,” Claire says.

“Camera guys know where Si’s sitting?” Seb asks.

“Unless the tickets changed, yep,” Claire says.

“Organist knows the wedding march?”

“Jesus Christ,” Carey mutters.

“Pretty sure it’s one of the first songs organists learn,” Claire says, which is fair.

“My parents got Si here?” Seb asks.

“I have absolutely no way of knowing the answer to that,” Claire says, which Seb supposes is also fair. He’ll have to trust them.

“Okay,” Seb says. “We’re doing this thing.”

“But what if he says no?” Jeremy whispers to Jess, and Seb pretends he doesn’t hear him because otherwise he’ll chicken out again.


	28. Robbie, Georgie; distance

Most of the time it’s —

Most of the time it’s fine.

Maybe that’s not the word to use. Well, that’s clearly not the fucking word to use. Okay, maybe? Survivable, though that sounds dramatic as fuck, a word he’d never use even with Saul, let alone anyone else. A word that stays firmly in his head only.

He’s sure a shitton of people would be shocked that he doesn’t just say every damn thing that comes into his head, but he knows some things can’t leave his mouth. He didn’t talk about Georgie for how long? Until he dropped right back into Robbie’s life, Robbie didn’t say shit. Never mind the way he held it in was — Saul used the word corrosive, which was pretty good, but Robbie would probably go with festering instead. Another thing he didn’t say out loud, another thing that makes him sound like a fucking drama queen.

Robbie’s had teammates he didn’t click with, teammates he doesn’t like. This isn’t really the same situation — obviously him and Georgie clicked, on and off the ice, obviously Robbie liked him — but he’s a lot better at keeping his distance than he was last season, when every time he took a step backwards he took another three forward, generally right into Georgie’s face, a toss up of yelling at him or kissing him.

There’s distance, now, and sometimes it feels like far too little, and sometimes it feels like too much.

Georgie nudges his shoulder, and it doesn’t hurt.

“Salzmann,” he mutters, low enough that Robbie almost can’t hear him, and Robbie watches him, the loose clutch of his stick. The next shift they have against him Robbie takes advantage of that, knocks it right out of his hands with a tap they couldn’t call slashing if they wanted to, though the crowd tries, dishes it to Georgie, who snaps it to Chaps, Chaps to Kurmazov, in the back of the net. Kurmazov, from Chapman to Dineen, and Robbie skates over, Georgie’s arm around him, Chaps helmet banging into his.

“Nice catch,” Robbie says once they’re back on the bench.

“Nice assist,” Georgie counters, and Robbie’s name isn’t on the board, but they’re up by three now, just have to hold out for another fourteen, and they’ve got it. They’ve still got it.

“Shit stops hurting sometimes, y’know?” Robbie says to Saul next session. “And then something just — it’s stupid.”

“It’s not,” Saul says, but Robbie doesn’t believe him.


	29. Gabe/Stephen; dumb hockey bro

“So am I there to be the trophy husband?” Gabe asks, when Stephen invites him to an event with his agency. It’s swanky, black tie, but thankfully Gabe’s got a tux from the annual casino night the Canucks do for charity, so he is totally ready to be trophy…well, it’s common-law marriage, to both sets of their parents’ dismay, but Gabe’s pretty sure that counts. Definitely counts to the BC government.

“You’d have to be prettier,” Stephen says.

“Hey,” Gabe says. “I do not. I have won literal trophies. Automatic trophy husband status.”

Besides, Stephen’s the pretty one in their relationship, obviously.

“You only got Stanley for a day,” Stephen says. “Get him full time and we’ll see.”

“This sounds like the start of a very stupid heist movie,” Gabe says. “Where I come crashing into the stained glass dome and steal Stanley and like, maybe the Art Ross for good measure.”

“The Hart would look better in the living room,” Stephen says.

Gabe considers. “Yeah,” he says. “But. Art Ross.”

“You steal whatever you want, babe,” Stephen says. “I don’t know if conjugal visits are actually a real thing though.”

“Well now I don’t want to do it,” Gabe says.

*

He’s actually pretty excited about it. He’s met a few of Stephen’s coworkers — well, more than a few if he’s talking in the context of his own career, because Stephen works for the agency he’s signed with, though his own agent’s down in LA — but it’s a different thing, going to an event as Stephen’s plus one.

He gets his tux dry-cleaned, manages to tame his hair enough to be presentable. He’s no Stephen, but he’s not going to embarrass him or anything, even though he is maybe currently missing two tooth, because they want his gums to heal more before they go ahead with the implants. At least it’s not his front teeth?

Stephen looks way better than him, but again, he’s the pretty one, so there’s nothing he can do about it, short of tucking a flyaway strand of Stephen’s hair behind his ear so he’s perfect.

*

Gabe’s excitement lasts through about half a bottle of beer. The vast majority of the people there are holding wine glasses, Stephen included, so Gabe probably should too, but the bar has a better selection of beer than these sorts of things usually do, and Gabe can’t resist Granville Island. 

There’s introduction after introduction to be made. Some are people Gabe’s heard Stephen talk about before, and it’s nice to put a face to a name. Others, the name sinks in and then just…disappears. Gabe’s not the worst with names, usually, but it’s a lot of people in a short amount of time.

They’ve got to be on introduction ten the first time someone indirectly asks why Gabe’s there, rather than just looking a little curious, or, Gabe’s pretty sure he’s not imagining, like they’re putting something together.

“He’s my—” Stephen says, then looks over at Gabe. They probably should have talked about this in advance, but this is a group of people working within the realm of hockey, they’d know better to jeopardize anything by letting it leave that world, same way guys in the locker room know that. Besides, Gabe thinks at this point most people just don’t care. Would Jake and David revealing they’ve been together for years be a revelation? Sure, but a second liner on the Canucks having a boyfriend? Probably wouldn’t even make the local news at this point, thankfully.

“Partner?” Gabe says, and Stephen shrugs one shoulder just a little, nods.

“Where’d you meet?” she asks. Gabe has already forgotten her name, and he feels bad about it.

“Uh,” Gabe says. “Don’t remember, honestly.”

She frowns.

Stephen rolls his eyes. “We were babies,” he says. “Our families are neighbours and we were born right around the same time.”

“Oh,” she says, looking confused. “So you’re—”

She doesn’t finish, and Gabe has no idea what she’s trying to say.

“It must have been convenient that Stephen ended up in Vancouver then,” she says.

“Um,” Gabe says. “Sure?” That’s not really the word he’d use, considering he’s the reason Stephen moved here.

“I mean, since you’re a Canuck,” she says, which Gabe is aware of? And again is the reason Stephen is in Vancouver. If — and he doesn’t even want to think this — if he got traded anywhere else, it’s not like Stephen would be sticking around here. They’ve talked about it. Thankfully, though, it looks like Vancouver wants him to retire here as much as he does.

“I am,” Gabe says. “Yeah.”

Well, that look was disdainful. “Ah, Barry,” she says, and then thankfully drifts off.

“I think she thought we were business partners or something,” Stephen whispers, sounding like he’s about to laugh, and when Gabe thinks about it, it kind of did seem like that. She also seemed to think Gabe was an idiot.

She is apparently not the only one who thinks that.

About the fourth time someone turns to Gabe and explains something he needs no explanation for, Gabe gets the sudden urge to blurt out ‘I’ve read Proust!’ like a complete loser. Not that reading Proust makes him a loser. He liked In Search of Lost Time, though it took practically an entire season for him to finish it. But the whole blurting it out so people stop looking at him like he can only speak hockey? Probably kind of a loser thing to do.

Plus, more important than the whole Proust thing is that he’s currently working on his Business of Hockey MBA long-distance, and therefore is pretty capable of following their discussions, but whatever. Let them underestimate him. He’s fine with that. He’s not sulking at the bar or anything.

“Could I get another one of these?” Gabe asks the bartender.

It’s weird seeing Stephen flitting from person to person while Gabe sticks at the sidelines. Of the two of them, Gabe’s always been the one more comfortable at events where you don’t really know anyone. Though, Gabe guesses that’s the difference. Stephen knows these people, navigates through them as confidently as he did his peers in university, as he probably did with the Penguins, and it’s nice seeing him like this.

Stephen makes another circuit before returning to him, or maybe just coming to get a refill.

“Are you hiding?” Stephen says.

“I’m just having a conversation with, um,” Gabe says, then looks at the bartender’s name tag. “Gavin.”

Gavin smirks a little, but doesn’t rat him out. Gabe likes Gavin. Good guy, Gavin.

“What’s up?” Stephen asks.

“Letting you shine all by yourself, fellow trophy husband,” Gabe says.

Stephen raises an eyebrow.

“I feel like they all think I’m a dumb hockey bro,” Gabe says.

“Well—” Stephen says.

“I am like, one of those things,” Gabe says.

“You’re hockey,” Stephen says.

“Exactly,” Gabe says, though that sounds stupid, and Stephen clearly agrees, because he gets this little smirk on his face, all ‘is that the word? I’d go with dumb, personally’

“I’d pick another one,” Stephen says.

Bonus of knowing someone for over thirty years. Also probably a downside of that. You always expect the sick burn before it comes, but on the other hand, you’re never really surprised.

“I mean,” Stephen says. “Pretty sure Beth and Anna would take offence to you denying bro status.”

Thirty plus years of knowing someone, sometimes you’re still surprised.

“They have said I’m their favourite brother,” Gabe says. “So fair.”

Stephen flicks his side. “C’mon,” he says. “You’re really just going to let them think you’re dumb?”

“It’s very difficult to overcome knee-jerk perception based on stereotypes,” Gabe says. “And I, for one, am not —”

“Baby,” Stephen says under his breath.

“ _Excuse_  me?” Gabe asks.

“You heard me,” Stephen says.

“Fine,” Gabe says. “I’m coming.”

Stephen smirks just like Gavin did. Gabe’s changed his mind about Gavin. Smirking’s rude.

Stephen beelines straight for a guy across the room, Gabe barely able to keep up with him, mumbling an apology as he bumps into a woman he is 90% sure he was introduced to earlier, but not positive.

“It’s nice to see someone I like,” Stephen says to the guy, and when the guy laughs he throws his head back, like Stephen’s hilarious, so Gabe immediately likes him.

“Rod,” he says, and Gabe takes his hand. “Aren’t you—”

“Gabe,” Gabe says, “Uh. Probably?”

“My boyfriend,” Stephen says. Gabe guesses he’s tired of the confusion. “He’s currently working on his MBA in Business of Hockey.”

“Oh, at Athabasca?” Rod asks, without a moment of hesitation. “How is it?”

“Good,” Gabe says. “Interesting to look at the sport from a different perspective, you know?”

“Planning on transitioning to front office, or are you thinking of following Stephen’s footsteps?” Rod asks.

“I’m trying to keep my head completely in the game right now,” Gabe says. “I mean, obviously I need to decide what direction I’m taking post retirement, but hopefully that’s at least a few years off, and we’re still a really competitive team, so.”

Rod’s nodding along, and Gabe doesn’t even notice Stephen’s moved away, finds him discussing business with two colleagues halfway across the room when Rod excuses himself to the bathroom.

“Enjoy talking business?” Stephen asks, after he breaks away from it.

“I did,” Gabe says. “Thanks.”

“I like Rod,” Stephen says.

“Me too,” Gabe says.

Stephen brushes something off Gabe’s lapel. Gabe doesn’t know if anything’s actually there or it’s just — they can do that here, the same way they can do that with the Canucks if the media isn’t around, could do that around Stephen’s university friends. Declaring himself comfortable, safe.

Gabe leans into him, presses his lips to Stephen’s temple. “Thanks for inviting me,” he murmurs.

“It’s not over yet,” Stephen says. “You’ve still got people to meet.”

He laughs when Gabe ducks his head against his shoulder and groans.


	30. Gabe/Stephen; home

Gabe is apparently never going to live down the fact that when asked what he missed most about home, he said ‘the CN Tower’.

“You know,” Dmitry says after, “I said my family.”

“Oh shit,” Gabe says.

It turns out that basically everyone else said that too — well, Peter said his dog, which he’s also getting shit for, though not as much as Gabe is.

Obviously Gabe misses his parents, misses the Petersens, who are not even ‘basically’ family, they are family, and obviously he loves them more than he loves a giant building, it’s just —

It isn’t the CN Tower. It’s driving in from Pearson, the way it just suddenly appears, a beacon, the sign he’s finally home. It’s getting turned around downtown and looking up to reorient himself, a magnetic south he can trust.

It’s him and Stephen at ten years old jumping on the glass floors while Anna bursts into tears because she’s afraid they’re going to fall right through it and die, him and Stephen at twenty three biting the bullet and having a mediocre, overpriced dinner at the restaurant, the lake glittering through the sunset, over a thousand feet beneath them, the brilliant glare of the light against the buildings. They started counting cranes as the restaurant spun its slow circle, lost track, the whole city getting taller, brighter, tighter every time he comes home.

It’s the CN Tower, but it could just have easily been the madhouse of Yonge and Dundas Square, which he avoids like the plague, or Maple Leaf Square, or, as he’d prefer it, Jurassic Park, or the Skydome, because it’s always going to be the Skydome to him, or Chinatown, which has never been less than packed, or Kensington Market, Gabe reluctantly trailing behind Stephen from overpriced vintage store to overpriced vintage store, sipping some ridiculous six dollar organic juice. It could be the TTC, humming like rush hour at noon on a Saturday, or the Pride Parade shutting down half the city, or the libraries he spent hundreds of hours in, kicking Stephen under the table when he got too sucked into a book and refused to leave. It’s the arenas he breathed the cold, sharp air of, the snowball fights he had in August with the dirty chemical snow the zambonis scraped off the ice, the baby swing set Gabe got stuck in, the ravine Stephen broke his leg in, the smoggy summer days they weren’t allowed outside, the frigid winter days Gabe doesn’t miss, really, except for when he does.

They asked Gabe what he missed most about Toronto, and his answer’s Toronto, nothing more or less.


	31. David/Jake; responsibility

They shouldn’t have agreed to do this.

Well, Jake shouldn’t have agreed to do this. Once Jake agreed, David’s hands were tied.

David likes Orange a lot, and he doesn’t really understand why other people call her difficult, but it’s one thing to see her with Kiro and Emily around, and another thing entirely to be solely responsible for her wellbeing for a week.

Kiro and Emily are trusting them with it, and David doesn’t want to undermine that by airing his concerns, but he  _is_  concerned.

“Babe,” Jake says. “It’s a cat, not a baby.”

“She,” David says.

“She,” Jake says. “Kind of a grumpy cat, but she’s pretty low maintenance. We don’t even have to walk her or anything, just go by and make sure she’s fed and gets some love.”

David chews his lip. “That doesn’t seem like enough,” he says. He offered to pick her up, but Kiro said Orange and travel didn’t go together well. Still, he wonders if she’ll be lonely.

“I think she’s pretty used to Volkie being away,” Jake says, when he mentions that. “Considering the whole hockey thing.”

“Well,” David says. “But not Emily.”

“Except Em only moved in a couple years ago,” Jake points out.

“So she’s accustomed to her!” David says.

“Babe,” Jake says. “Are you freaking out?”

“No,” David says.

“Why are you freaking out?” Jake asks.

“I’m not,” David says, and when Jake crosses his arms, “I just — I don’t want to do a bad job.”

“Orange loves you,” Jake says. “So you’re way better than a random cat sitter for her, and it’s not like we don’t know how to open a can of cat food and empty the litter box.”

David’s nose wrinkles.

“I’ll empty the litter box,” Jake says.

“But she’s — she’s older, and —” David says.

“David,” Jake says. “She’s not even middle aged for a cat. She’ll be fine.”

“You can’t promise that,” David asks.

“David,” Jake says.

“I know I’m being ridiculous,” David mumbles, because he does, and Kiro says it’s good to admit it. It doesn’t feel good, though.

“A little,” Jake says, and David tries not to bristle, because he does know it’s true. He presses a kiss to David’s jaw, which eases the sting a little.

*

“David,” Jake says. “C’mon, we’ve got to be at Joe and Jenn’s in ten minutes.”

“I know,” David says.

“We’ve been here two hours,” Jake says.

“I know,” David says. “But—”

“David,” Jake says. “Please come out from under the table?”

“But,” David says.

Jake crouches down. “Babe,” he says, laughing a little.

“She fell asleep,” David says.

“I can see that,” Jake says.

“I can’t move,” David says. “I’ll wake her up.”

“She’ll go right back to sleep,” Jake says, but that isn’t true, because when David reluctantly lifts her off him, she follows them to the door, watches them get their shoes on, like she knows what’s coming.

“We’re already late,” Jake says, and that’s the only thing that gets David out the door.

Orange meows from the other side of the door, and David freezes.

“We can come back after dinner?” Jake says.

“Okay,” David says, and reluctantly lets Jake lock up. “I’m coming back soon,” he says through the door, but Orange just keeps meowing.

“Okay, so you can never have a cat,” Jake says in the car.

“Why?” David asks.

“Because you’d never leave the house,” Jake says.

He…is probably right.

“We’re coming back after dinner, right?” David asks. “You didn’t just say that?”

“I love you,” Jake says, which David hopes means yes.


	32. Seb/Si; inkling

There probably never was going to be a good time to get slapped upside the head with the fact his best friend is really, really cute, but as far as times go, lying so close to Si he could lean forward and kiss him is — it’s bad. It’s a very bad time.

Seb’s been — it’s been obvious for awhile that he maybe isn’t as straight as he should be, between an unintended reaction to a rewatch of Fight Club and what he…has to acknowledge is possibly a crush on the captain of the Nordiques, but Brad Pitt and Marc-Andre Michaud aren’t real people. Well, of course they are, but they’re not —

They’re not Si, who blinks his eyes open, like he’s been alerted to the fact that Seb’s staring, and frowns.

“You’re looking at me weird,” Simon says.

“You’re looking weird,” Seb retorts automatically, though he isn’t. He doesn’t look any different than usual, just sleepy, because it’s late, hair tousled from the pillow, eyes too big without his glasses. Well, normal sized, but they’re — they’re too big. “Go to sleep.”

“You go to sleep,” Si retorts, and then seems to do just that.

Seb’s bed is a queen, and they’ve never had a problem sharing it before, but right now…it’s a problem. Seb rolls over, stares up at the ceiling, because it’s easier than looking at Simon. Or — no, it isn’t, it’s actively hard not to stare at him right now, but he’s less likely to do something he’d regret.

“Tabarnak,” Seb mumbles when he’s absolutely positive Simon’s out, takes his pillow and goes to sleep on the couch in the basement.

“Kept tossing and turning,” he says, when Simon frowns at him the next morning, which isn’t a lie. “Didn’t want to wake you up.” Also not a lie.

He’d hoped sleep would get it out of his system, prove temporary insanity or maybe it’s just been too long since he’s hooked up — he hasn’t since Catherine broke up with him a month ago, so maybe — but watching Simon shovel cereal into his mouth, swimming in one of Seb’s shirts, kicking Seb under the table when Seb’s quiet for too long…he’s worried it’s not.


	33. Hank/Jordan; purpose

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Directly follows [this](http://youcouldmakealife.tumblr.com/post/173392621761/hankjordan-purpose).

There probably isn’t a way of coming back from asking a guy if he only asked you to dinner because he was feeling guilty. Or, if there is, Hank does not find it.

It’s strange, how physical an awkward silence can be, how every attempt to break through it feels like trying to cut through something solid. Honestly, it’d be for the best if Hank made his excuses and left, but he finds himself strangely reluctant to.

“Look, I didn’t mean to imply—” Hank tries.

“I think you did a little more than imply,” Davies counters, which is fair. Outright accusation is a little different from implication. That one goes both ways, but Hank has zero interest in worsening an already tense situation by bringing that up.

“I just don’t get why you’re here,” Hank says. “If it isn’t—”

Davies gives him a look Hank thinks he should be able to figure out, but whatever it is he’s supposed to get from it, he doesn’t. He doesn’t know the guy, not really.

“I guess I just wanted to—” Davies says, then pauses, like he doesn’t know why he’s here either. Maybe Hank’s reading too much into it. He has an annoying tendency to do that when it comes to Jordan Davies. The amount of time he’s spent thinking about him in correlation to the amount of times they’ve actually talked — and how disastrous some of those times have been, today very much included — is honestly kind of pathetic.

“I guess I just wanted to,” Davies says again, a full statement this time, and Hank doesn’t have the first clue how to respond to that.


	34. Matty/Crane; bad decision making (AU)

It starts, as many of Devon’s bad decisions do, with too much to drink, and when Devon wakes up the next morning with Matty curled around him, both of them just in their underwear, his first thought is ‘shit’.

His second thought,  _I jerked Matty off last night_ , that one gets him stumbling out of bed and into the bathroom.

It’s Matty and Bardi’s room, their toiletries all over the counter, and Devon wonders where the hell Robbie is, whether he knows what happened, whether he came in and  _saw_ , but that’s not something Devon can think about right now, not if he wants to remain calm.

It takes a few minutes, but Devon gets his breathing under control, more than practiced at routines that keep him from panicking, considering how much rides on his performance night after night, but he almost loses control of it entirely when he comes out to find Matty sitting up in bed, looking sleepy and tousled. There’s a vague imprint of fingertips bruised onto his hip. Devon put them there. He remembers putting them there.

“Morning,” Matty says, and Devon finds himself automatically saying it back.

“Should we, um,” Matty says. “Talk about last night?”

He looks nervous, embarrassed, which both make sense, but also a little like he’s happy, which doesn’t, and which gets Devon’s stomach flipping.

“I —” Devon says, then. “I guess?”

“Can you…can you go first?” Matty says, shy. Shy like he often is, but hasn’t been with Devon since their rookie year.

‘We were drunk,’ Devon wants to say, ‘It didn’t mean anything.’

He can’t, not with Matty looking at him like that. Can’t, knowing that Matty doesn’t do that, drunken hookups, meaningless sex, doesn’t do that, but did last night, knowing that probably means it means something to Matty, even if Devon doesn’t know what exactly that something is.

‘I don’t even like guys,’ is also at the tip of his tongue, also never lands. Honestly, that’s a downright stupid thing to say to someone you jerked off last night, drunk or not, especially when you were the one initiating it. It’s not even the first time he’s done it — jerking someone off, he means — though he’s almost positive it was the first time for Matty, which makes it even more ridiculous.

“I’m not really sure what to say,” he lands on finally.

Matty laughs, kind of nervous. “Yeah, me either,” he says. “Would you — would it be okay if we did that again?”

‘It didn’t mean anything’, Devon thinks. ‘I don’t even like guys’.

Matty’s face is so, so open, and Devon hates how easily he can read it right now, how well he knows Matty, well enough to know just how badly he could hurt him right now. Matty, who Devon never wants to hurt, who brings out every protective instinct in him.

“Okay,” he says. “Sure.”


	35. Roman/Evan(/Harry); quiet night in

It’s a lot more peaceful when Harry’s not around.

Roman’s not — he likes when Harry’s around. Harry’s a brat, and never stops running his mouth, and turn any conversation into an argument, but he’s also funny — sometimes on purpose, sometimes not — and fun, and just…fits.

But if Harry was here, instead of hosting his little sister, they’d probably spend half an hour arguing about what movie to watch, or Roman would be getting poked to make popcorn ‘the proper way’, ie the most labor intensive way, rather than the ease of handing Connie the remote, wrapping an arm around him, and preparing to turn his brain off. You can’t turn your brain off around Harry: you’ll instantly lose the verbal sparring contest.

 _don’t watch anything I want to watch or I’ll kill you,_  Harry’s texted him, and Roman rolls his eyes, tips his phone so Connie can see.

“Aw,” Connie says. “He never threatens to kill me.”

“It’s our special thing,” Roman agrees, and Connie grins.

“Rom-com?” Roman asks.

“Harry likes rom-coms,” Connie says.

“Yeah,” Roman says, because he does, gets more into them than anyone when Connie picks one, despite grumbling about it every time. “But he won’t admit it, so he can’t say shit about it.”

“That’s mean,” Connie says, but he also picks a rom-com in the end, so Roman isn’t buying his innocent routine.

The other thing about Harry not being around is that Roman doesn’t have to constantly pause whatever they’re watching when Harry opens his mouth. They watch a two hour movie in two actual hours, which is unprecedented.

While the credits roll Roman sends Harry a snap of Evan drowsing against his shoulder, and Harry immediately responds with a jealous ‘fuck off’, followed by an ‘aww’ when Roman sends another of the puddle of puppy Zuza is right now, curled around a toy Harry got her for her birthday.

“C’mon, Sweetheart,” Roman says, presses his mouth against the top of Evan’s head. “Bed.”

It’s weird, going to bed without Harry — generally it’s the three of them together, or they’re on the road and they’re all sleeping alone — but probably a good thing, considering Roman’s bed is smaller than Harry’s, and between Evan’s long limbed sprawl and Roman’s size, it’s a tight enough fit as it is.

“This is kind of weird,” Connie murmurs.

“Right?” Roman says.

“Not bad,” Connie says hastily, like he’s worried he’s offended him, and Roman rolls onto his side, kisses the back of his neck, hand settling against his breastbone. “Just quiet.”

“Quiet can be good,” Roman says.

“Yeah,” Connie says, then as Roman’s hand drifts down the cut of his abs, fingers slipping under his waistband, “Yeah.”

“You gonna keep quiet for me, Con?” Roman says, and Connie breathes out, shaky and almost silent, in response.


	36. Ulf/Carson; ride ‘em

“I can’t believe you’re making me do this,” Carson says.

“We live in Texas,” Larssy says. “We should experience it.”

“This is like, stereotypical Texas,” Carson says. “Not real Texas.”

“Stereotypes tend to be based in fact,” Larssy says, and Carson has to marvel at him, this dude who can pull out that sentence in perfect textbook English, but forgot the word popsicle yesterday and had to mime like, dick sucking while saying ‘cold’ before Carson belatedly understood. Really belatedly. He got distracted. Larssy claims it wasn’t dick sucking, but it sure looked like it, and Carson says that as someone who knows what Larssy looks like when he —

Focus on other things. Like the fact Larssy apparently wants them both to land up on IR.

“I’m not getting on that fucking bull, for the record,” Carson says. “It’s not happening.”

“You don’t have to,” Larssy says. “I will.”

“You will not!” Carson says, and Larssy smirks at him, because he went a little high pitched there. “You want to explain to Coach how you got injured riding a mechanical bull, that’s on you.”

“It is,” Larssy says serenely.  

They’re both underage, but no one bothers to ID them when Larssy orders a pitcher of Bud Light (their options: Bud or Bud Light, and apparently if they’re going to drink swill they’re going to go with the lower calorie kind), and Carson doesn’t know if that’s the place’s usual lax policy or the fact they both clear 6’2”. He was kind of hoping they would get ID’d, thrown out, because then there wouldn’t be any potentially disastrous rides on the bull, but no dice, apparently.

“You think drinking’s going to help you stay on that thing?” Carson asks, shooting a wary glance over at it. No one’s seemed to stay on for more than a few seconds, and even though no one’s gotten injured yet, that doesn’t mean it isn’t going to happen.

“Does Bud Light even count as alcohol?” Ulf asks.

“Well,” Carson says. “Touche, I guess. But seriously, if you want to do like, Texas Stereotype Bingo, couldn’t we just go for a steak or something?”

“You want to take me to dinner?” Ulf says, mouth curling up.

“Don’t,” Carson snaps.

Larssy holds his hands up, like Carson’s being ridiculous, and Carson takes a swallow of beer, focuses on the bull in the center of the bar, another dude who lasts about three seconds before he’s landing on the mats. This is so stupid. This is so stupid, and if it was someone else Carson would fully expect some pussying out to happen, but it’s Ulf, so of course he gets up after a beer, determined to crack his head open.

“You’re gonna split your damn skinny jeans,” Carson mutters, and colors at the look Larssy gives him, all ‘you’d like that, wouldn’t you’, slinks down in his seat. He’s jealous of all the people wearing cowboy hats, suddenly, because if he had one he’d be able to hide his face.

Ulf approaches it with the confidence he approaches everything, doesn’t even seem to notice the looks he’s getting. Carson’s not surprised he’s getting them. Like, ‘yo, what the fuck is a hipster underwear model doing here?’ Good question. 

Whatever smirks and mockery he’s ignoring — or doesn’t see — disappears pretty quick, though, because Ulf rides that thing like he’s done it before, even though Carson knows he hasn’t. It makes sense that he can hang on, considering the core strength and balance that goes into what they do, and that’s not even mentioning his massive — Jesus, shut up, Rutledge.

No one’s smirking at him after, and he actually gets a couple pats on the back as he walks back to the table, laughing a bit breathlessly as he pushes his hair back out of his eyes with a negligent flick of his hand.

“You see me, Rutter?” Ulf asks, sitting back down across him, foot nudging his under the table.

“Yeah,” Carson says, looks down at his glass, pulls his foot away. “I saw you.”


	37. Bryce/Jared; simple touch

Holding hands is so weird. Like, who first thought of that as a couple’s thing? You know, that thing your parents do when you’re little to make sure you don’t run into traffic or trip over your own feet and fall on your ass? Let’s do it again when we’re older, but like, romantically.

The weirdest thing is just — how good it feels? Jared doesn’t think he’d ever really thought about it before — when he imagined getting a boyfriend, his brain was kind of more focused on the kissing, and maybe the whole idea of the date itself, how that’d be different than just grabbing lunch or seeing a movie with a friend, and like, the sex, obviously. But holding hands? He didn’t give it a second thought.

Bryce rubs his thumb over the back of Jared’s hand, and Jared shivers. This is ridiculous. Jared’s been pressed against him skin to skin. Jared’s had Bryce’s dick in his mouth, and vice versa. And a brush of Bryce’s thumb is apparently still enough to completely distract Jared from TV in a way that Bryce’s ankle hooked over his or the fact they’re basically touching from shoulder to ankle doesn’t. Not that Jared isn’t aware of that too, because he is, but that slow drag of Bryce’s thumb has his attention zeroed in on the tiniest stretch of skin, not the TV, not the throb of his ankle from a blocked shot the day before, just Bryce, the way Bryce touches him, the way Jared feels when Bryce touches him.

It’s probably pathetic, how Bryce can unravel him without a thought. Jared guesses it must be obvious too, that maybe he’s tensed, or relaxed, or something, because Bryce turns his head, murmurs, “What’s up?” against Jared’s temple.

Rather than say ‘apparently I can’t even handle holding hands with you without feeling like I’m going to combust’, which sounds absolutely ridiculous, Jared kisses him, and it’s an answer Bryce doesn’t seem to mind.


	38. David/Jake, Kiro; Hogwarts AU cont.

It keeps happening. David knew it would, if he’s honest with himself, or at least he knew that he didn’t have the restraint to stop it, as much as he’d like to pretend otherwise. That if it stopped, it would be because they were graduating, or because Lourdes grew tired of it. 

He’s honestly surprised Lourdes hasn’t.  

David knows he’s not the only person attracted to Lourdes. He’s seen others congregate around him in ways that can’t be construed as merely friendly, groups of students who aren’t even Gryffindors sighing over him at the quidditch pitch when he plays. Obviously David doesn’t know if the Hufflepuffs do the same when they play Gryffindor — he’s a little preoccupied with finding the snitch — but he’d like to think they’re loyal enough not to. That’s supposed to be a Hufflepuff virtue, after all, though David is a little suspicious of the assumptions people make about houses. He’s never met anyone more loyal than Kiro, and from the way people talk, you’d think Slytherins were incapable of it.

Considering how many people seem like they’d absolutely jump for joy if Lourdes gave them the time of day, David doesn’t understand why he’s bothering with someone who isn’t actually, well — nice.

Because David knows he’s not nice to him. He does. He tries to be, sometimes, not nice, necessarily, but civil, because you probably should be civil with someone you’re routinely exchanging…gratification with, but it’s difficult. Every time he tries Lourdes says or does something infuriating, like he’s trying to get David to snap at him, though he always seems surprised when David does, a split second of hurt on his face that David wishes he didn’t notice.

He doesn’t — he doesn’t want to involve Kiro in this, he doesn’t want to involve  _anyone_  in this,  _he_ shouldn’t even be involved in this, and considering he told Lourdes he couldn’t tell anyone, it’s probably unfair that Kiro and Emily know, but he can’t even focus on his NEWTs, and he’s received offers from some quidditch teams to try out once he’s graduated, but he can’t  _depend_ on that –

“I just don’t understand!” David explodes after staring unproductively at his Charms work for an embarrassing amount of time. Thankfully they’re in his dorm room, which is deserted, all his dorm-mates ‘enjoying the weekend’ rather than taking their futures seriously.

“Lourdes?” Kiro says, not looking up from his own work, though he puts his quill down when David blurts out everything in a rush.

“Yes,” Kiro says. “Why you?”

“I don’t know!” David says, frustrated. “And stop looking at me like I’m stupid.”

“I’m not,” Kiro says. “I just — why would Lourdes choose you over someone else who is nice to him, do the same things?”

David — it’s ridiculous to flinch, thinking about that ‘someone else’, so many potential ‘someone else’s who’d happily trade places with him, someone else with their mouth on Lourdes’, their hands under his robes, who’d leap to hold his hand in the dining hall, daydreaming about some white picket fence — or some grand manor, with all the attention Lourdes is getting from quidditch scouts, already hailing him as a quidditch superstar before he’s even graduated, sponsors leaping to sign him. Someone not David.

“I don’t know,” David mumbles.

“Davidson,” Kiro says.

“I don’t!” David says, and when Kiro gives him a long look, David can’t meet his eye. 


	39. Bryce, Elaine Marcus; landline

Elaine knows something’s off the moment Bryce says hi, choked off and anxious, and before she can help herself, she’s already imagining what it is this time: another DUI, a fight at a bar, maybe —

She forces herself to focus. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” Bryce says, then, “Mom?” kind of shaky.

“What’s wrong?” she repeats.

“It’s like,” Bryce says. “It’s good news? I think? It’s not—”

“Okay,” she says, exhales, because Bryce wouldn’t be framing an arrest as good news. Which then has her wondering if it’s hockey: she didn’t think the Flames would be willing to trade Bryce, it’d be monumentally stupid for them to trade Bryce, but maybe —

“What is it, Pooh bear?” she asks.

“Mom,” Bryce protests.

“Bear,” she counters, because he is never winning this argument. He won the ‘not in front of other people’ one years ago, and that’s all he’s getting. “Why’re you calling?”

“I call you all the time,” Bryce says, and that’s true, but —

“Bryce,” she says.

“I’m seeing someone,” Bryce says, all in a rush.

“That’s great,” she says, relieved.

“It’s — his name’s Jared,” Bryce says, anxious again, and Elaine — she knows Bryce is gay. He hadn’t said the word itself, but blurting out ‘I don’t like girls’ on a slightly tipsy Christmas night, after never having a girlfriend in his life, it wasn’t hard to put the pieces together, so she doesn’t know why he sounds so nervous now.

“That’s great,” she repeats, and Bryce exhales so loudly it breaks her heart. “How long?”

“Since the end of July,” Bryce says.

“July?” Elaine snaps. July was over three months ago. July was almost a hundred conversations ago. Bryce has always been terrible at subterfuge, or at least she thought so. Maybe he’s better than she thought, or maybe she’s lost her touch, a thousand kilometres away from him, ones she feels every day.

“I wanted to — I wanted to make sure he didn’t, like,” Bryce mumbles. “I didn’t want to tell you if he was gonna —”

She thaws slightly. “It’s serious, then?” she asks.

“Yeah,” Bryce says.

“Tell me about him,” she says.

“He’s um,” Bryce says. “He’s amazing? He’s like, mean, but in a funny way? And he’s super smart, like I don’t know how he’s getting As right now with hockey—”

“He’s in university?” she asks.

“Um,” Bryce says.

“Bryce,” she says.

“He’s in twelfth grade?” Bryce says.

“Bryce,” she says.

“He’s really mature,” Bryce says. “Like, he doesn’t act seventeen at all.”

“Do his parents—”

“Yeah,” Bryce says. “They’re okay with it. Well…actually, not really, but he’s like, allowed to see me, so.”

“What does Dave say about this?” Elaine asks, because if this was somehow leaked — she can’t think about that. She won’t.

“Um,” Bryce says.

“Bryce Justin,” she says. “You’re dating a teenager.”

“He’s eighteen in April,” Bryce mumbles, like that isn’t six months away.

“You have to tell Dave,” she says.

“Dave’s going to yell at me,” Bryce says. “And like — I didn’t do something stupid this time, okay, mom? This isn’t — I’m not letting Dave yell at me for loving someone.”

“Love, huh,” she says.

“Yeah,” Bryce says.

“I want to meet him,” she says.

“He’ll probably play in Vancouver soon?” Bryce says. “I can pull up the Hitmen schedule.”

“He’s a WHLer?” she says, and then, “Please tell me you didn’t coach him at that camp.”

“I—” Bryce says. “He refused to listen to anything I said, so like, technically I wasn’t?”

Elaine needs a glass of wine. 

Elaine needs a bottle of wine.

“Oh, bear,” she says, and looks at her watch to see how far away five o’clock is.


	40. Jake, Joe, Panthers; the shit moments

It’s the really shitty nights when it becomes really obvious how good a captain Jake is.

The good times, sure: if you get called up, your first meal, first night out, that’s going to be on Jake’s dime. It’s your birthday, you got engaged, your wife’s pregnant? There’s going to be a cake. Well, two cakes, probably: one Jake asks someone to run out for, if it isn’t already there, and one shaving cream one someone’s (and by someone Joe means probably Gally) smashing in your face. He gives a kickass pregame speech to rally the troops.

But it’s when everything’s shit that Joe appreciates him the most. Partly because it means Joe isn’t doing it, doesn’t have to fumble with it, but mostly because he knows Jake can. On the ice Jake’s the first man in if someone throws a dirty hit, and Joe knows that’s something that bugs the fans sometimes, the media, Jake getting more than a few instigators over the years, but his guys know that if someone hurts them, Jake’s going to hurt them the fuck back. He’s the one who’ll argue right to the edge of the line if you get a bullshit call, or if someone didn’t get a deserved call against you. He’s the one shouting down the bench, rallying them, the first one with a stick tap to the ass or a headbump.

But it’s mostly the shit off the ice, the shit no one sees, that makes Jake the best captain Joe’s ever had.

It’s Jake spending the night in Lauri’s room after his dad died in the middle of a road trip. It’s the way he immediately became an impenetrable wall between Filip and Ulf until the trade happened, the way he’s still in touch with Filip, checks in on him even now that he’s in the KHL.

And it’s right now, the first time they’ve made the playoffs in fucking forever, only to last a grand total of five games before bowing right back out, it’s Jake stopping every single guy as they file out. It’s the way he gives Gally a crushing hug but only says a few words to Parey, keeping his distance, because fuck knows Parey wouldn’t want to be touched right now. That Joe knows, but he doesn’t know how Jake seems to know it about everybody, not just Parey and Gally, who Joe could peg himself, but everyone: who needs a hug, who needs a quiet word, who isn’t cool with more than a nod, maybe a ‘next year’.

“Joe,” Jake says, when the room’s emptied out, and Joe wonders what it is Jake thinks he needs.

“Cap,” Joe says.

“We fucking sucked, huh?” Jake says, and Joe finds himself laughing, even though he hadn’t thought he’d be capable of it right now.


	41. Annie, Harry, Erin; little brother blues

Initially Annie was happy that Harry came home for winter break. She missed the shithead, phone calls and texts and emails and facebook messenger not really the same. At some point Harry went from her annoying little brother — well, her secondmost annoying little brother — to one of her favorite people, and she doesn’t know when, but she misses him when he’s halfway across the country.

The thing is, though, he’s still her annoying little brother, and she shouldn’t forget that.

First warning sign is when Harry looks up from his phone with a giant, shit-eating grin.

“I,” Harry says, before pausing dramatically, and Annie gives him a wary look. Second warning sign. It’s not like it’s  _unusual_  for Harry to be dramatic, but the consequences of Harry on a drama spree are sometimes…bad.

“You?” Annie prompts, because he’s clearly waiting to know he has her attention.

“Am going to meet the Riveters,” Harry says, with relish.

“No,” Annie says, then, “Absolutely not.”

“I already asked,” Harry says smugly. “They said they’d be  _delighted_  to meet Annie Chalmers’ brother after their game on Saturday.”

“I genuinely hate you,” Annie says, and kind of means it.

*

Obviously Annie goes with him. Of course she does. There is absolutely no way she’s letting Harry anywhere near Erin — the Riveters — without some adult supervision. He can’t be trusted.

Harry starts out on his best behavior. Well, no, he doesn’t, not during the game, where he keeps elbowing Annie whenever Erin’s on the ice and is generally intolerable, but when they get back to the room after the game he waits outside while Annie peeks in to check that nobody’s half naked or something, and is a perfectly nice guest, shaking hands, complimenting plays that happened in the game — he’s got one for basically everyone, from a good shot block to a great pass, and Annie knows, obviously, that he knows his shit, he lives it, but she didn’t know he was paying attention that closely, between the elbowing and the mockery all game.

She’s suspicious. She’s waiting for the trap.

She is very, very nervous when Harry finally makes it to Erin, because if something’s going down, it’s going to go down right then. Harry behaves, Harry gets Annie’s guard down — or thinks he does, Annie knows him better than that, and wham —

“Annie talks about you all the time,” Harry says.

There it is.


	42. Jared, Hitmen; naming conventions

Jared fucking loves Starbucks. It’s not for the drinks, which are pretty mediocre right up until you consider how much they cost, and then they’re fucking terrible. Free wifi’s nice at least, especially when they’re travelling, saves him data, but the best thing about Starbucks is watching the baristas try and fail to hide their expressions when the guys give them a name for their orders.

Some of the dudes fare the same as Jared. Kevin, for example, Kevin does okay. Chaz is a pretty dumb name, like, objectively ( “Hey,” Chaz says), but it’s also pretty easy to spell. Kaleb does fine because he doesn’t give a shit if they spell it Caleb. The many versions of Braden, none of whom actually spell it Braden, also don’t give a shit, and the baristas spell it in as many varieties as they do.

But some of the guys do care, and it’s completely hilarious. Krz’s many, many attempts to explain that it isn’t ‘Chris’, even though that’s how it’s pronounced, no, uh, there are no vowels, and also it’s a K, not a C, and also it’s a Z, not an S, and there’s no H, and finally giving up and asking for K R Z, like he’s giving them his initials, that’s great. Krz is pretty normal, like, for a goalie, right up until someone spells his name wrong, which is pretty inevitable, and then he goes into the most epic goalie sulk you could imagine. It’s so great.

Today it’s him and Tristyn and Jaxon and Jalen. Tristyn and Jaxon are just going to have their names spelled wrong, so that’s not all that interesting, but every time Jalen orders something it turns into this whole thing.

“Jalen,” Jalen says, as usual.

“Jaden?” the barista responds.

“Jay,” Jalen says. “Len.”

The barista gives him a blank stare.

Jared bets good money it’s going to be “Jaden.”

Jaxon has no problem when he orders, except it’s definitely going to come out as Jackson. Unfortunately, Jaxon’s one of the dudes that doesn’t care, which is no fun.

Jaxon’s followed by Tristyn, who gets some monstrosity that has to fill his sugar quota for both today and tomorrow. Jared tries not to judge him. Well. Okay, he doesn’t really try.

“Tristyn,” Tristyn says, then, “With a y,” like his entire existence would be invalid if someone dare gave him a cup with “Tristan” on it.

Jared orders an earl grey tea once Tristyn’s finished, and Tristyn snorts, like  _that’s_  mockable. Seriously. How dare Jared not want like, twenty teaspoons of sugar and caramel and whatever the fuck plus an obligatory shot of espresso so Tristyn can pretend he’s drinking coffee.

“It’s like three hours until we go to bed,” Jared says. “Sorry I don’t want to stay up to hear you sleep talking.”

“I don’t talk in my sleep,” Tristyn protests as usual, and Jared reminds himself for probably tenth time that he needs to record it at some point, because Tristyn’s solidly in denial. Possibly because unlike Jared, he actually gets to sleep through it.

Jared waits with his tea while Tristyn’s gross shit is made, because he’s nice or whatever.

“Jared,” Tristyn whines after it’s handed to him, and Jared bites back a laugh as Tristyn brandishes a cup reading “Trystan” on it, like that’s any weirder than Tristyn.

“I mean,” Jared says. “He spelled it with a ‘y’.”

“Fuck off,” Tristyn mutters.

“Sure thing, Try Stan,” Jared says.

Tristyn gives him the finger, and Jared raises his tea to hide his smirk, before staring at the ‘Jarrod’ on his cup.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” he mumbles.

“What?” Tristyn asks.

“Nothing,” Jared says quickly, and covers it with his hand.


	43. Hank/Jordan; rafters

They don’t even wait a year to announce they’re retiring Jordan’s number. Jordan’s humble about his career, but Hank thinks that says everything about him in one sentence: how good a player he was, how good a captain he was, how much the fans loved him, how much the organization respected him. All in one sentence.

They’re going to wait a little longer for the Hall of Fame induction, since you have to be retired for three years before you even get on the ballot, but there’s no doubt in Hank’s mind he’s ending up there too.

Lindsay calls him the day it’s announced, before Hank can even call Jordan, who’s in Detroit probably to nail out the logistics of this exact thing, though he brushed it off as ‘business’, to congratulate him. He’d be annoyed Jordan didn’t tell him before the Red Wings twitter account did, but knowing him, he probably didn’t think it was actually happening until the press release went out.

“You’re coming,” Lindsay says.

“Hi, Lindsay,” Hank says. “How’re you?”

“I mean it,” Lindsay says. “You’re coming. The Red Wings reserved a box for friends and family, and you’re coming, and you’re sitting with us.”

“No,” Hank says. “I’m not.”

“No one’s going to psychically know you’re there,” Lindsay says.

“They don’t need to be psychic if I sit with his family,” Hank says. “Cameras will do the job.”

“Okay,” Lindsay says. “Don’t sit with us. But you’re going to regret it if you don’t come.”

She’s right, of course. It’s an irritating fact of Lindsay Davies’ existence: she’s generally right, and she’ll be happy to gloat after the fact when, as usual, she has been proven correct. Jordan’s just as annoyed by it.

It’s insane how quickly the tickets sell out. Hank made a point of remembering the date they go on sale, but maybe he should have also noted the time, because by the time he goes online to buy them, they’re gone, only resale left, and the resale costs are insane. Hank buys one as close to the ice as he can afford to, knows Jordan, or even Lindsay, would pull some strings if he asked, but he doesn’t want to do that.

Jordan’s tied up with press conferences, the day of, and it’s not like Hank hides the fact he’s flying into Detroit, so much as…neglects to tell him. He’s got shit to do that Hank’ll only get in the way of, so it’s something that can wait until the ceremony’s over. Hank leaves first thing in the morning but only gets into town with only an hour to spare after a long layover in Toronto, doesn’t bother to check into a hotel, since Jordan’s still got a house here. Maybe that’s presumptuous. Probably not, though.

It’s usually the family accompanying the player in these sorts of things. Well, it is Jordan’s family, but obviously not the wife and kids it typically is, Jordan’s parents on the ice with him. Jordan’s parents, who Hank hasn’t met yet, and who are almost definitely staying at Jordan’s tonight, along with Lindsay and her husband and the Blueberry, as Jordy always calls his niece Grace. Maybe Hank didn’t think this through. Maybe he shouldn’t have come.

Except then they zoom in on Jordan’s face on the Jumbotron, his eyes suspiciously bright, and Hank finds it hard to swallow, suddenly. Hard to swallow then, and after, when they slowly raise Jordan’s name to the rafters, the Red Wings and the visiting Leafs tapping their sticks in salute to him, and he knows he made the right choice, coming tonight.


	44. David, Kiro, Jake; emotional support

Kiro’s contract is up with the Panthers soon, looking free-agency right in the eye, and he’s worried about it. Kiro is, David means, though he isn’t saying anything about it, will in fact change the subject if anything related is brought up. Well, David’s worried too, because Kiro’s worried, and David’s not accustomed to seeing that. It strikes him in an uneasy place, especially when Kiro legitimately snapped at Slava for asking, and not the playful snapping David’s still awed he gets away with, but actual anger. Even Slava seemed taken aback by it.

Training today was no different than usual, at least as far as the actual training, the length of time they were there, but it felt longer than usual, Kiro’s foul mood as infectious as his cheer typically is, and by the time him and Jake head back to their sublet, David’s exhausted.

“Do you think—” David says, then, reconsiders, goes with, “Do you know whether they’re going to renew Kiro?”

“Babe,” Jake says. “Front office doesn’t give me the inside scoop on what’s going on with the other guys.”

“I know,” David says, because logically, they wouldn’t. Jake’s the captain, but he’s still a player. The talent, or the commodity, the product, however you want to look at it, not really an employee so much as a contractor. “I just — he likes it with the Panthers.”

“We like having him,” Jake says. “I mean — I don’t know about front office, but the guys do. Like. Despite the pranks.”

Jake always talks about Kiro’s pranks, but David can’t really see it.

“I have no idea how Volkie convinced you he’s innocent,” Jake says, when David says as much. “Have you even  _met_  him?”

“Obviously I’ve met him,” David says.

“David,” Jake says. “That was like, a — one of those questions I already know the answer to.”

“Rhetorical,” David says.

“Yeah,” Jake says. “That one. Volkie’s a complete troll.”

There’s nothing Jake can do about it, David knows that, but he’s still — frustrated, isn’t the word, exactly. Or maybe it is, he doesn’t know. There’s nothing he can do about it, no way he can impact whether or not the Panthers make Kiro an offer or him and Emily have to pick up and go somewhere else, another NHL team, probably, but maybe not, Kiro would probably make more in the KHL, and he’d be home, and Emily even speaks Russian, so —

“Whoa,” Jake says. “Babe?”

“I’m fine,” David mumbles.

“I could…talk to front office?” Jake says.

“No,” David says, because he really couldn’t.

Kiro seems cheerful enough the next morning that David begins to hope. 

“Did the Panthers talk to you?” David asks, and Kiro’s face drops so quickly David immediately knows he’s made a mistake.

Training’s long again, long, and uncomfortable, and David keeps searching for something to say, something that will break a smile across Kiro’s face, because it looks wrong, the lack of one, but every time he tries he just seems to make things worse, and in the end he says nothing at all, and just hopes the Panthers will do the right thing.

They do, finally, with only a few days to go before free-agency begins, sign Kiro for another two years, and it feels like there’s a collective sigh of relief the next morning when Kiro comes in all smiles again.

*

Kiro is — the only way David can think to describe it is ‘freaking out’, and David doesn’t understand it.

“You…want to have a kid, right?” David asks. David knows him and Emily were — trying, and he’s always uncomfortable when people say that, ‘trying’, because it implies — it’s not even an implication, it’s baldfaced talk about their sex life. But now that Emily is pregnant, Kiro’s been anxious and snappish in a way David’s never seen him before, not even when the Panthers kept him on tenterhooks, and David wonders if he’s regretting it now. Some people  — well, some people don’t want kids, and maybe Kiro thought he did until it was a reality.

“Obviously!” Kiro says.

David’s confused, and says as much, because when he does, Kiro always explains.

Except he doesn’t, really, goes right back to freaking out, which seems to be in direct contradiction to his insistence that he wants a kid. If he did, he wouldn’t be acting like this.

“I don’t understand,” David says, because maybe if he keeps saying it, Kiro will eventually say something that makes sense.

“What if I’m a terrible father!” Kiro moans, dropping his face into his hands. Which absolutely does not make sense.

“You’re going to be a great father,” David says.

“You have to say that,” Kiro complains, muffled.

“No, I don’t,” David says. He wouldn’t say it if he didn’t think it was true, and he thinks Kiro knows that. “I said it because I think you’re going to be a great dad.”

Kiro looks up at him, gives him this long, hard stare.

“What?” David asks, self-conscious, and Kiro doesn’t say anything, but he pulls him into a hug David immediately returns. It’s weird, Kiro’s hugs. Well, not weird, exactly, but the majority of the hugs David receives — off the ice, because on ice hugs are more collisions than anything — are the quick one armed kind, maybe with a pat to the back. He prefers those. Well, he prefers no hugs in the first place, most of the time, so those are better.

But Kiro doesn’t hug like that, nothing, well — David can practically hear Robbie saying ‘no homo’ — about it. He holds on, and with anyone else — well, except Jake, but Jake is David’s exception to almost everything — David might be uncomfortable, but with Kiro it’s fine. Good. He doesn’t feel trapped, no matter how long Kiro holds on.

David imagines Kiro holding on to his daughter or son like this, not just when they’re little, but older, offering affection as effortlessly as he does with David, as unconditionally.

“Your kid’s going to be so lucky,” David says, not knowing why the words come out ragged, and Kiro turns his head to kiss him on the temple.


	45. Ulf (Ulf/Carson); moving forward

Changing teams is a part of the career. Most guys don’t stay with one team their entire career. Some lucky ones get to decide where they go, pick a team in July, deal with everything at their leisure. And then there’s getting traded.

At least Ulf has the offseason. At least there’s that. He wasn’t shipped off at the deadline, given a matter of hours to pack everything that was really important before getting on a plane, or worse, getting traded on the road, arriving in Toronto with only the stuff he brought on the trip, the proverbial clothes on his back.

At least there’s that.

There’s only so much he can do from Stockholm, arrangements that can be done on the phone, services to cancel, Ulf getting the spiel to stay with them even after his ‘I’m moving’ and additional ‘to another country you don’t actually exist in’. He’s going to have to head back to Dallas to pack unless he hires a moving service, and even then, he’s got to find a place in Toronto before he does anything else.

“Part of being an adult,” his mother says, not without sympathy, when he lays it all out, but honestly, Ulf’s pretty sure most adults aren’t moved without their permission. Not that they need his permission.

A lot of the Wild have called to commiserate — Fyodorov, who’s going to Toronto right with him, and who has it worse, Ulf knows, moving a wife and two kids with him — or wish him good luck, or, helpfully, offer to connect him with a Leaf they know, and in the case of Driver, who’s a former Leaf, a good realtor.

Carson hasn’t called. Hasn’t responded to his texts. Ulf doesn’t know if he blames him or not — he’s not sure how he’d react if it was Carson who was traded, how hard he’d take it. Not that he’s assuming Carson’s taking it hard, just — it’s the longest he’s gone without talking to him in — it’s the longest he’s gone without talking to him. It’s not helping the disconnected feeling, that literal disconnection.

His mother flies with him to Toronto, because adult or no, she apparently doesn’t trust him to pick out his own place. Flies back to Stockholm after he’s signed a year’s lease, secure in the fact that whether he ends up a Leaf or a Marlie, at least he knows he’ll be in Toronto either way.

He flies down to Dallas, the heat absolutely oppressive, his shoes practically sticking to the sidewalk with every step, and tells himself he’s not going to miss it. That’s true, mostly.

His place is sweltering, AC sluggish, like it knows days are numbered before he shuts it off, Ulf a month shy of his two months notice, and not planning on sticking around any longer than he needs to pack everything up, ship it off to Toronto to wait for him.

Ulf settles into it, piles of things to keep, things to throw away or give away, the ‘maybe’s, which he’ll revisit later. It’s incredible how much you accumulate when you think you’re there to stay. Gets through his clothes quickly enough, most of it worth keeping, save his Dallas shirts, which he puts in the discard. No point holding onto the past.

Toward the bottom of his shirt drawer there’s a plain black t-shirt that isn’t his, is Carson’s, he’s pretty sure. Carson isn’t that much bigger than him, but he wears his shirts a size larger, like he’s trying to hide his body. Ulf would never leave the house in it, would swim in it if he did.

He folds it carefully, puts it in his suitcase rather than any of the piles, and doesn’t let himself question why.


	46. Anton/Vinny; arrangements

It usually happens on road trips.

Thomas suspects some of it is because if Anton’s not in Montreal, it’s neater — ‘I’m leaving tomorrow’ is a pretty easy exit point, one that doesn’t leave the same room for interpretation as ‘I’m not looking for anything else’, which might potentially lead to ‘I have a boyfriend, he’s cool with me doing this, but yeah, I’m not available for more than a night’. 

That might not be true forever — the ‘no more than a night’ thing, not the boyfriend thing, Thomas is holding onto Anton as long as Anton holds on to him, and he’s hoping that’s forever — but right now, it’s one night stands.

Thomas thought Sandro was actually going to murder Anton with his bare hands, the first time Anton picked up on the road, had to have an emergency session in the bathroom before the Habs were short a defenceman. He misses Sandro, but he doesn’t miss the way Sandro would glower at Anton whenever he so much as chatted with a woman in a bar, even after Thomas explained, even seeing that it clearly didn’t bother him.

It’s been awhile since Anton’s picked up, a long home stand, and the last time they made out Anton basically tapped out after two minutes and went to jerk off, so he’s probably going to pick up tonight. He’s more comfortable with it if Thomas isn’t there, even knowing it doesn’t bug Thomas, and Thomas kind of gets that. 

He heads to a quiet bar with Serge and Deps so they can nurse a nice glass of wine without the rookies making fun of them for getting old — though Thomas is totally going to make fun of Serge and Deps for getting old, it’s the bonus for being the only one there under thirty — and Anton goes to a flashier bar with the young guys that’ll have the kind of clientele that might be interested in hooking up.

Anton does pretty well at picking up, usually. Thomas hasn’t seen him strike out much, unlike some of the other guys — Sandro did terribly before he settled down with Sylvie. Honestly, Sandro did pretty terribly with Sylvie, Thomas stands by the fact that they wouldn’t be together if Thomas hadn’t stepped in and told Sylvie Sandro liked her. Sandro likes a girl and all his confidence and his sense of humour seems to just disappear.

Thomas is back in the room a few hours later reading a thriller Meg recommended to him, because ‘for once you won’t guess the twist’. Thomas never guesses the twist, so he guesses that extra guarantees it. Meg’s got a lawyer’s mind though, so it was probably pretty novel for her.

There’s a knock on the door, and Thomas can tell it’s Anton, doesn’t know how. It’s ridiculous that he’s knocking, since he’s got the same key card as Thomas, but he gets up, because if he doesn’t answer, Anton will probably slink off and ask to sleep in Deps’ room or something, equally ridiculous.

Anton’s hair is wet, shirt sticking to his chest a little, like he didn’t bother taking the time to dry off properly. He always does that, showers, presumably after, like Thomas will balk if there’s any evidence. Won’t talk about it either, like that might be the thing that takes it from cool with Thomas to not cool. He’s worrying over nothing, but Thomas doesn’t push, because it’ll just make Anton uncomfortable.

He doesn’t ask if Anton had a good night, because the one time he did Anton flinched like it was a barb, doesn’t comment about the wet hair or anything, just tells Anton about the book he’s reading and watches Anton relax by degrees until he’s back to himself again.


	47. Georgie, Dicky; imposition

Georgie had no idea Dicky had any interest in fishing. Well, maybe he doesn’t, but his best friends are making a weekend of it at some family place in Newport, guys Georgie’s known since they were little kids, and apparently they’ve extended an invitation to Georgie along with Dicky. It’s probably going to be more drinking while water adjacent than actual fishing, but honestly, that doesn’t sound half bad right now.

“Cool,” Georgie says. “I’m in. As long as I’m not imposing or anything.”

“Dude,” Dicky says. “C’mon.”

“What?” Georgie says.

“They’re all going to be starstruck and smug to have you and shit, now that Dylan’s dating a Caps fan,” Dicky says. “Which will be super annoying, but whatever. You’re not — seriously, who uses the word imposing in a sentence?”

“Both of us, now,” Georgie says.

“Fuck off with your semantics shit,” Dicky mutters, and Georgie gets him in a proud headlock, because look at this college kid, accusing Georgie of semantics shit, and holds on until Dicky breathlessly whines at him to let him go.

Georgie likes fishing, though he doesn’t get much of a chance to do it in the offseason, between training in upstate New York and none of his Providence based friends having any interest, which is a shame, because the Rhode Island fishing isn’t bad. He always wanted to get a cottage for the family, or maybe something off the Atlantic, because that was his mom’s favorite kind of vacation whenever they actually managed to have the money and it didn’t conflict with soccer or baseball or hockey, so pretty rarely.

He isn’t secure enough to buy one, really, not if he wants to be smart about his money — he’s got a financial planner that keeps him on a pretty strict budget, though she gave Georgie a thumbs up on paying Will’s tuition and living expenses — but he could easily afford renting one for a month or two. He’ll have to look into it. At least now he knows Dicky will fish with him if he does. If they take Will along, he’ll probably make them catch and release, though.

Georgie hasn’t gone fishing in years, not since before he went to the Barons. He tried fishing with Robbie once during summer vacation, which was probably stupid of him. Robbie, all coiled energy no matter what he’s doing, lasted about five minutes before his knee started to bounce, ten before he started whining. After twenty Robbie accused him of purposely taking him to a place without fish, and Georgie pointing out that he’d caught one already didn’t seem to make any difference, because Robbie hadn’t, so  _obviously_ there were no fish.

By minute thirty Georgie was about ready to push him right out of the boat, might have done that if he didn’t know Robbie would have dragged him in right after him, and honestly, even if he didn’t, Georgie probably would have jumped after him anyway, and then they’d be screwed.

Stop.

Just stop.

It’s a beautiful day when they drive up, Logan driving, Georgie in the passenger seat, and Dicky and Dylan crammed in the back with a ton of the stuff, Dicky half glowering half giving Georgie this look in the rearview, all ‘I told you they’re all starstruck’. It’s weird. They’ve been Dicky’s best friends since elementary school. Georgie dated Logan’s sister in high school for all of two weeks. He tutored Dylan’s little brother in math, which isn’t even something he’s great at, but being five years older and patient did most of the work for him.

If there is anything starstruck about them, and the front seat wasn’t just his because he’s the oldest or the guest or whatever, it’s completely gone by the time they’re unpacked, Logan breaking out the beer cooler before Georgie’s even finished arguing with Dicky over who gets top bunk in the room they’re sharing.

They continue the argument with beer in hand, until Dylan offers to flip a coin for them, and Georgie is victorious with heads.

“He rigged it for you,” Dicky mutters, but he concedes Georgie’s victory.

Dicky refuses to get out of bed the next morning in time to do any fishing, clinging to his pillow and swearing at Georgie when Georgie tugs at his ankle, so Georgie sets out with Dylan and Logan, everyone a little bleary eyed, blinking into the bright summer morning.

Logan’s got a cooler with him again, beer at the bottom, but sandwiches above them, energy drinks Georgie passes on, a thermos of coffee they hand around. The day’s gone from nice to sweltering when they get back empty handed, nothing they caught worth keeping, definitely not worth eating, and Dicky looks so smug, perched on the dock like he was anticipating their failure, that Georgie feels it’s his obligation as an older brother to push him right into the water.

“I could have had my phone!” Dicky yells when he gets out, meaning he didn’t, which makes Georgie think maybe Dicky knew exactly what was coming for him.

He manages to hand his phone to Logan just in time to save it before Dicky retaliates.  


	48. Ulf/Carson; knowing

Carson thinks he’s losing his mind. Two hours until he has dinner with his dad. Dinner with his dad, and with Ulf, and he honestly thinks he’s going to throw up. He doesn’t know why he agreed in the first place, not to his dad, because of course he’s going to see his dad when they’re in the same city, but when he’d mentioned it, Larssy said “Cool,” then, “Mind if I meet the famous Barrett Rutledge?”

“Sure,” Carson said, and didn’t realise how fucking stupid that was until after.

The thing is, his dad just — knows shit.

Carson wonders if it’s like that for his players, or just his kids. If there’s something in the blood. Dad knew if Carson skipped a workout, and he knew if Eric skipped school, and not because of a call from the school or anything. He knew when Felicity started smoking, and he rode her so hard about it Carson’s pretty sure her first cigarette was her last. He knows when they do something wrong, he knows when they fuck up. He somehow hasn’t figured it out about Carson yet, but this? This is tempting fate.

He’s been to this restaurant with his dad before, and he might have thought that would be comforting, the familiarity, but it’s the opposite, Larssy walking in with him, twisting it into something else. His dad’s already there — Carson could have come half an hour early and his dad would probably have still been there first, not because he shows up that early to things, but because he always seems to know when people will arrive, always makes it there first. Another one of those things he just knows.

“Dad,” Carson says. “Uh, Ulf. Larsson. Ulf, my dad. Um. Barrett Rutledge.”

God, just kill him.

“Larsson,” his dad says, standing up and offering Larssy his hand. “Carson’s talked a lot about you.”

Carson hasn’t. Carson didn’t think he had. Maybe he did. Maybe he talked a little and there was something in his voice that his dad caught, or maybe — maybe it’s just that any stories Carson has with the team, Larssy’s there. It’s that. It has to be that.

And it’s inevitable, isn’t it. Wherever Larssy is, Carson is too. That makes sense. Share a roster, share a room. It’d be weirder if he didn’t mention him.

He needs to stop mentioning him. Let his dad think — let him think whatever, as long as it isn’t —

Ulf grins, that stupid grin that Carson hates, or doesn’t, really, just hates how easy it looks, how everyone who sees it looks like they’re instantly charmed, how Carson isn’t the exception. Takes his dad’s hand, and this was such a bad idea, letting things collide like this. Carson wasn’t thinking. He never thinks.

Dinner’s fine. Well, no. It’s not. Carson spends more time carving his steak into microscopic pieces than eating it, spends more time eating than talking, though between Ulf and his dad it moves on without him, his dad asking Ulf about his time in the SHL, how he likes Dallas, the Wild, discussing a prospect of his dad’s who played with Ulf in Sweden.

His dad doesn’t take him aside after, say anything in that casual voice, ‘hey, did you head to the gym today?’, like he knows the answer, just wants to see if he’s going to catch you in a lie. No ‘hey, you’re not fucking your roommate, are you?’. No ‘hey, that isn’t the imprint of Larsson’s teeth on your shoulder?’. Nothing, just a hug and a pat on the back, and Carson has this feeling like he got away with something, another feeling like maybe he’s already been caught and he just doesn’t know it yet, too stupid to realize.

It’s early — well, not early, but not late —  but Carson crawls into bed while Larssy takes a shower, stares at the off white walls, resists the urge to pull the blanket up when the bathroom door opens.

The bed sinks under Larssy’s weight, something Carson feels less than the damp heat of him against his back, even though they’re not actually touching. Less than he feels the inch of distance between their bodies, one he needs to change, torn between leaning back into him and getting away.

“Hey,” Larssy says, and Carson’s body makes the choice for him, because he flinches when Ulf’s hand lands heavily on his shoulder.

Larssy pulls his hand back. “Did I do something?”

“No,” Carson says.

“Was it something at dinner?” Larssy says. “Because I—”

“Just fuck off, okay, Ulf?” Carson says.

Larssy’s quiet. “Fine,” he says, and the bed moves as he gets out of it, walks the short distance to his own. Carson can still hear him breathing, something in him ratcheting tighter and tighter with each inhale, exhale, but he can’t just — you can’t tell someone to stop breathing, obviously.

“Can you stop breathing so fucking loud?” Carson snaps, because apparently he’s asking anyway.

“I’m going to Hallsy’s room until you stop being a dick,” Larssy says instead, and it isn’t until the door shuts behind him, incongruously quiet, that Carson starts to shake.


	49. Bryce/Jared; combination

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Very minor spoilers for IJ(aoe), just in how the rest of Jared’s season goes for him personally. And like…the status of them in June 2016)

“How bad is the Wingate, actually?” Jared asks the day before he’s supposed to head down to Buffalo for the Combine. “Like, no bullshit.”

“I mean,” Bryce says. “It’s not like you’ve never used an exercise bike before?”

Jared gives him an unimpressed look, which means he saw right through Bryce’s answer.

“It’s not that bad?” Bryce tries.

“Well, you landed in the top ten during your Combine, so of course you think that,” Jared says.

Bryce has no idea how Jared knows that. The internet, he guesses. At least the internet didn’t tell Jared that Bryce threw up after. The Wingate was brutal.

“Don’t worry about it,” Bryce says, because it’s not like it’ll help for Jared to go in nervous. “You’ll nail everything.”

Jared grunts a little.

“Well,” Bryce says. “Maybe not the grip test.”

“You saying I can’t grip hard, Marcus?” Jared asks. “You want to test that right now?”

“You can grip hard!” Bryce says, throwing his hands up before Jared feels the need to prove it.

“I just—” Jared says, blowing out a breath, and Bryce can see him starting to work himself up.

“You had a killer season,” Bryce says.

“Oh, now you’re looking me up, huh?” Jared asks.

“I have eyes,” Bryce says. Though he has, a little, and it looks like the rankings agree with him: Jared’s moved up like dozens of spots from where he was at the start of the season. One site had him as a potential steal among a few players that were supposed to go late in the first, Sanchez included. Bryce isn’t going to lie, he tried to do the math to see if the Flames could pick him. It doesn’t look good, but they could trade, or maybe he’ll go earlier or later than they expect, or —

He doesn’t want to think about Jared going somewhere else. It makes him feel kind of sick.

“What’s that face?” Jared says.

“Nothing,” Bryce says.

“I’m the only one allowed to worry right now,” Jared says.

“Nope,” Bryce says. “You’re not allowed. Because you’re going to nail it.”

Jared makes a doubtful sound, and Bryce squeezes his hand, hopes that helps.


	50. Maria, Oleg, Kurmazov(a)s; 19 years

Maria doesn’t know how they get down to ice level. It’s a complete blur, Zhenya tucked tight against her, Irina holding Tatiana’s hand without complaining for once because in the press of the crowd, it’d be so easy to get lost. Easier still when you can barely see through blurry eyes.

“I can’t believe you’re crying,” Sofia says, and Maria doesn’t even need to look at her to know she’s smirking.

“Just wait until papa is,” Irina says.

“He isn’t going to cry,” Sofia scoffs.

Oleg’s face is wet when they reach him, and again, Maria doesn’t need to look to know the exact triumphant smile Irina’s aiming at her sister.

“Hold—” Maria says, and Irina’s taking Evgeni from her before she can finish her sentence, Oleg skating over to the carpet so she can bury her face in his chest.

“Twenty years,” Oleg says. “Twenty years, Masha.”

“Nineteen,” Maria says, looking up. “But who’s counting.”

“You apparently,” Oleg says, with a grin so wide it cracks his face.

Twenty one years together. Nineteen years he’s been working for this. Nineteen years and three teams, three cities, four beautiful, infuriating children and it’s not like she ever didn’t care about his career, of course she cared about his career, but she didn’t know how full she’d feel right now in this moment, how proud.

Maria pulls back so the girls can swarm him, first as a group then one at a time, Oleg liberating Evgeni from Irina’s arms after a kiss to her hair.

“You have time for an interview?” someone with an NBC microphone asks, and Oleg grimaces, but says yes, of course.

“Do you want—” Maria asks, holding her arms out, but Oleg shakes his head.

Oleg’s always been media shy, especially when it comes to their children, but he conducts his on-ice interview with Evgeni squirming in his grip, Maria standing close enough to take him if he starts acting up. Maria has zero doubt Evgeni will end up in the Cup eventually. The girls will make sure of it.

Tatiana tugs at her jersey. “I’m finding David,” she says.

“Don’t bother him if he’s in the middle of an interview,” Maria says.

“I don’t bother him,” Tatiana argues, before bounding off, and Maria turns her eyes back on her beautiful boys.


	51. David, Tatiana, Caps; not a bother

**David and Tatiana in the post-Cup scrum!**

There was only one officially in my Patreon prompts, but I also got three additional asks for it, so I figured I should probably prioritise it. 

(A day early because I am impatient! I know, you’re all terribly surprised about this character flaw in me I have not displayed ever, and especially not…frequently)

It still hasn’t sunk in, David doesn’t think. He thought it had, when Oleg had pulled him in so hard it’d made every single bruise on his body flare, David’s throat so tight he couldn’t swallow, eyes prickling. He thought it’d sunk in then, or maybe when Oleg handed him the Cup, deceptively light in his arms, but when everyone starts breaking off to find their families, David finds himself standing in the middle of the ice, feeling almost numb, like nothing’s happened, like he hasn’t won anything yet.

David is lucky that he’s looking when Tatiana comes flying over. She skids over the last stretch of ice, and David reaches out reflexively, thankfully catching her before she goes straight past him. There probably isn’t much that would make Oleg frown right now, but his daughter concussing herself would be one of those things.

“Careful!” David says, and Robbie, standing a few feet away and clearly looking for his family, on the toes of his skates like that’ll make him taller, bursts out laughing.

“Did she just nail you in the balls or something?” Robbie asks. “Your voice went up like seven octaves.”

“There are children here!” David hisses at him.

“Balls isn’t a swear word, c’mon,” Robbie says.

“Oleg’s kid!” David says.

“…yeah, I don’t wanna die until after the Cup Parade at least, point,” Robbie says, and skates backwards towards his family, identifiable because his mother looks just like him, minus the eyebrows – David’s assuming the man holding her hand is Robbie’s father, even though he looks like he’s in his seventies, purely because of the eyebrows – and about a foot on skates.

“Where’s your dad?” David asks Tatiana.

“Interview,” Tatiana says. “Mama said I could say hi.”

“Hi,” David says.

“I like the hat,” Tatiana says.

“You want to wear it?” David asks.

“Can I?” she asks, and beams when David hands it over.

“Sorry it’s sweaty,” David says, and she shrugs, puts it on her head, which is swallowed by it, the brim tilting down.

“Turn around?” David says, and adjusts the snaps to make it as small as he can. It’s still way too big on her, but he’s less worried about it falling off now.

“Chapman?” he’s asked, straightens up to see a CBC mic. “Do you have a minute for Hockey Night in Canada?”

“I—” David says. “Sure.”

“Can I be on TV?” Tatiana asks the rinkside reporter, and David can see the camera man grin.

“I don’t know if your parents would be okay with you on national—” David says.

“Hi Canada!” she says with a wave at the camera.

“—TV,” David finishes. He really hopes it’s okay with Oleg and Maria, because he doesn’t think he’s going to be able to get her off camera.

“We weren’t live, so do you want to say hi to Canada again?” the reporter asks, holding the mic in front of her, and she dutifully does, waving even more furiously.

“That’s a nice hat you have,” the CBC reporter says.

“David gave it to me,” Tatiana says. “It’s only for Stanley Cup Champions.”

“Does that make you a Stanley Cup Champion?” the reporter asks.

“I guess?” she says, and David bites back a laugh.

They pan the camera up to David, ask the question he’s expecting — how does it feel — and David’s at a loss to respond, manages “I feel—”, unsure what to say next.

“David?” Tatiana interrupts.

“Sorry,” David says to the reporter, then, “Yeah?”

“You won,” she says, “So it’s your hat.”

She hands it back to him, and David puts it on, too tight at his temples.

“I don’t know if it’s sunk in yet,” he says, maybe too honest.

“This is Oleg Kurmazov’s daughter, right?” the reporter asks.

“Yeah,” David says.

“When you left the Islanders, did you imagine hoisting the Cup with him?” he asks. “Did you talk about that?”

“We didn’t, but I — I hoped,” David says, too honest again, his throat going tight, and he’s not going — he’s not crying on camera, he can’t cry on camera.

Tatiana squeezes his hand, and David has to look away from the camera before he loses what’s left of his composure.


	52. David, Kiro, Oleg, Slava; photographic evidence

When they start training, David’s Cup day is past. Oleg isn’t until towards the end of the summer, when the Cup and its keeper head across to Europe. It’ll be the second time it’ll be in the arena Oleg played in growing up, which David gathered — from Slava, not Oleg — Oleg is grumpy about, even though he’s twice the player his brother is. David’s grateful his talent is no longer mired on the Islanders, though obviously he isn’t going to say that in front of Slava.

It’s the first time David’s seen Oleg since the Capitals split for the summer, though he’s talked to him. He’s talked to a surprising amount of the Caps, actually, like something about winning the Cup made everyone intent on staying in touch with the entire roster. It’s also the first time David’s seen Kiro, who went to Russia in June, and he’s a little surprised by how relieved he feels when they’re all in the same place again, Slava barking orders at them after telling him and Oleg that being Champions meant he’d only go harder on them, and telling Kiro if he didn’t wipe that smirk off his face he’d be getting the worst of it.

At the end of the day, David’s wiped, but he’s a little reluctant to head out regardless. Kiro takes care of that by dragging him and Oleg out for dinner, Oleg protesting the entire way.

“Show me Cup party pictures,” Kiro says, leaning over his shoulder.

“I already sent you pictures,” David says.

“But you curated them,” Kiro says.

“I…curated them?” David asks.

“You only sent me the boring ones,” Kiro says.

“I did not,” David says.

“Here,” Oleg says, tossing his phone at Kiro, who lights up. David can’t even count how many expressions cross his face as he flips through the pictures on Oleg’s phone.

“How wasted was Bardi?” Kiro asks.

“Um,” David says. There really isn’t a good answer to that question.

“Very,” Oleg sighs.

“How wasted was Davidson?” Kiro says, and David leans over to get a look at an absolutely terrible photo of him, eyes half shut and hair sticky from champagne and beer, leaning on Raf’s shoulder. 

David grabs the phone from Kiro. “How do I delete this?” David asks. 

Oleg snatches the phone back. “My pictures,” he says.“Delete it!” David says.

“No,” Oleg says, and stands firm as much as David begs.

“Send me it,” Kiro says, and Oleg says no to that as well, and doesn’t listen to Kiro’s begging either, thankfully.


	53. David/Jake; good fortune (in bed)

“I want a picture of you and the Cup in bed,” Jake says.

“I’m not going to take it to bed with me,” David says.

“But David,” Jake protests. “You have to. Everyone does it.”

“That makes it worse,” David says. He hopes the Cup keeper disinfects it between each Cup day. Well, knowing what happened with it during the post-Cup celebrations, they definitely disinfect it. Still, he might want to disinfect it himself tomorrow morning, when the Cup and its keeper arrive from Montreal, before traveling to Saskatchewan for Matthews’ and Crane’s days. “And Dave said no pictures.”

“No dirty pictures,” Jake says.

“Me in bed isn’t dirty?” David asks.

“Everyone does it,” Jake repeats, like that’s a valid argument.

“I’m not going to,” David says, and Jake makes a disappointed noise.

“Can I have a picture of just you in bed?” Jake asks.

“Dave,” David says.

“A moving one?” Jake asks. “Please?”

“Are you asking me to come on Skype?” David asks.

“Maybe,” Jake says.

David’s Cup day starts early, and it’s getting late, but —

“Okay,” he says.

*

A few months ago Kiro installed an app on David’s phone that sends photos that basically delete themselves after they’re seen, and David doesn’t trust it entirely, but he does trust it enough to send Jake a picture of him and the Cup on his hotel bed the next night. Fully dressed, and over the covers, and Jake calls him immediately.

“That’s not what I asked for,” he complains.

“It is,” David says.

“I wish I was there,” Jake says.

“You know I—”

“I know,” Jake says. “I know it’s like, a bad idea. I’m just sorry I missed it. I could’ve met your nanny.”

David smiles. He’s torn between that and crying like a stupid kid again, thinking about Mary Anne.

“It was a good day, right?” Jake asks. “I mean, despite being stuck in Ottawa.”

“Yeah,” David says. “It was good.”

“I’m really glad,” Jake says, then, “Please just take your shirt off? Get under the covers?”

“No!” David says. “Jake!”

“You’re killing my dreams!” Jake says.


	54. Mike/Liam; HP AU (Pt 1)

Mike’s always had a more than refined bullshit detector, and this kid is setting it off so fucking hard.

Here are the facts: someone has been stalking various members of the Kenmare Kestrals, one of which is Liam Fitzgerald. They’ve left threatening messages in their place of work and, more soberingly, in their living spaces. Even more soberingly, personal items have been taken, and best case they’re trophies, worst case the perp is using them for magical purposes. The threats have grown more lengthy and explicit, and multiple Kestrals have reported a feeling of being watched, so their coach called the Aurors in.

Undetermined: the motive (Mike’s leaning toward overzealous fan right now), and whether the perp is going to escalate from illegal entry, theft, and threatening messages (unfortunately likely considering the escalation of the threats themselves).

Complete and utter bullshit: Liam Fitzgerald is so terrified he requires a personal guard.

Mike doesn’t buy it for a fucking second, but unfortunately his superiors do. Fitzgerald’s the Kestrals’ star chaser, and Monroe has maybe let the fact he’s a Kestrals fan cloud his judgment, because Mike’s law enforcement, not a fucking babysitter.

Mike doesn’t know what the kid’s play is, whether he just wants to go around appearing so famous he has a personal guard, since somehow they’ve managed to keep it out from under the noses of the media, or it’s a fun story or what, but on the scale of players, bemused to genuinely unsettled to slightly hysterical (Dawley, understandably, since his wife and young son were home when the message to him was left, one that must’ve been personally delivered, since there wasn’t a trace of magic on it. They saw nothing, and they’re both unharmed, but Mike bets he can’t stop thinking about that working out some other way) Fitzgerald falls into a whole other category of ‘slightly entertained by it all’.

“American, right?” Fitzgerald asks, the first day Mike’s assigned to him.

“Mm,” Mike says, scanning the streets. It’s early, and there aren’t many people around, certainly no one who looks suspicious, but he needs to get into the habit of it.

“How’d an American end up working in Ireland?” Fitzgerald asks, like he isn’t a Canadian in Ireland. Mike’s read his file. Still, Quidditch teams generally have a mix of nationalities on them, so the answer if Mike asked him the same would probably be ‘they offered me the best contract’.

“I’m based in London,” Mike says.

“That doesn’t answer my question,” Fitzgerald says.

“Nope,” Mike agrees.

Fitzgerald — Mike can’t think of any other word for this — pouts, like Mike refusing to spill his life story is unfair. Which is too fucking bad for him, because Mike’s not obligated to do anything more for him than make sure stays in one piece and hopefully catch the shithead with the fucked up obsession with the Kestrals. 

Not that it’s likely, with how obvious it is that Fitzgerald’s got a guard. This sure as shit doesn’t qualify as a stakeout, and when he mentioned to his superiors that might be a better idea, they looked at him like he was a goddamn moron and said he was supposed to be protecting Fitzgerald, not using him as bait.

Mike’s week as a glorified body guard is one of the longest of his life. The kid’s easy on the eyes, but he’s really fucking hard on the ears, and it’s hard to keep his attention off him, on what he needs to be aware of, because he’s so damn insistent on Mike paying attention to him constantly. 

The only breaks he really gets are when sleeping — on a hard, lumpy couch in Fitzgerald’s living room — and during a quidditch game, which is hardly a break when Mike spends the entire time tense, scoping the pitch for any hint of a threat.

Mike’s started to let his guard down — a mistake, he knows, but the kid’s chatter takes all his energy, and none of the Kestrals have been hit since Mike picked up the case — when, over Fitzgerald’s chatter about Ilvermorny (the students were different, but most of the teachers were the ones Mike had twelve years before, because apparently staff turnover isn’t a thing), Mike can hear the front door of Fitzgerald’s apartment open, a squeaky hinge the only thing that gives it away, and every muscle in his body goes tense.

Fitzgerald opens his mouth, and Mike claps a hand over it before he can speak, realizing belatedly a silencio would have been more effective, because there’s no guarantee Fitzgerald will actually take the hint, as obvious as it is. Might just speak to be contrary. That seems like something he’d do.

“There’s someone here,” Mike murmurs, and Fitzgerald, thankfully, just nods, a little wide eyed. Mike would like to say that’s fear in his eyes, not because he wants Fitzgerald to be scared, but because it looks more like excitement, Merlin help Mike.

The living room isn’t exposed to the front door, but it’s one of the first rooms, and Mike moves fast, dropping his hand from Fitzgerald’s mouth and hoping he doesn’t take it as permission to talk, one hand on his wand, the other on Fitzgerald’s wrist, dragging him into his bedroom, and beyond, a closet littered with quidditch paraphernalia and not much else. Mike’s shoulder bangs into a broom as he closes the closet door behind him as quietly as he can. Great. A literal broom closet. He’s standing in a literal broom closet with the person least likely to be able to stay quiet long enough to avoid getting caught.

Mike is not paid enough for this.


	55. Ulf/Carson, Marc; warm ups, three periods (OT & shootout)

“You are fine,” Marc says, and that must be a command and not a statement of fact, because Ulf does not feel fine.

“Ulf,” Marc says, very serious sounding, and when Ulf exhales, a little shaky, Marc puts his hand on his shoulder, squeezes hard.

Ulf had worried, a little, when Riley came back up and Marc got all twisted up in him, every moment he wasn’t with him still somehow  _with_ him, at least in the back of his mind, that Ulf had just been a consolation prize to keep him company while the one he wanted around wasn’t with him.

But it’s settled down a bit, more relationship and less obsession, Marc mostly back to normal, and Riley’s even stopped squinting at him like if he blinks Ulf will reach out and steal his man. Because no. Gross. Nothing against Marc, he’s a good looking guy, but he slotted pretty quickly into the ‘friend, not fuck’ category.

Maybe Carson should have been in that category. Maybe if he had, this wouldn’t be the first time Ulf’s going to see him since he got the news he was traded. Or maybe it would have been, Ulf out of mind as soon as he was out of sight.

Ulf presses the heels of his hands into his eyes, digging in harder when Marc squeezes his shoulder again.

“Warm ups,” Marc says. “Three periods.” Setting it into a discrete task. The problem is, it only reminds Ulf how wrong that is. He grabbed dinner with a few of the Wild guys last night, a mini reunion, and he might be projecting, but all of them seemed a little surprised Carson hadn’t come, his absence sitting there awkwardly, like another person at the table.

“Say it,” Marc says.

“Warm ups,” Ulf says. That will be the worst part, with no game around him to distract him from it, only a routine he’s done hundreds of times before. “Three periods. Maybe OT and the shootout.”

“Pedant,” Marc mutters, like he isn’t one himself, and Ulf manages to smile.

*

He’s almost shaking when he steps onto the ice for warm-ups, the first time in a long time he’s done that. It probably hasn’t been since World Juniors, years back, and a Gold Medal game is a much better excuse than someone that used to be his friend, someone he used to think of as more than that.

“Hey,” Buchanan says, skating up to him less than a minute after they get on. Ulf hasn’t managed to look across the ice yet. Ulf simultaneously doesn’t know how he’s stopped himself from looking. “I know it’s hard, playing your guys.”

“Not my guys anymore, Cap,” Ulf says.

“They don’t stop being your guys just because your jersey’s changed,” Buchanan says. “Just know one game against them, one hit you take or throw, one chirp, they start being opponents real quick.”

“Sure,” Ulf says.

“You don’t believe me,” Buchanan says. “Trust me, one shift in, you will.”

Ulf nods, a few times, saved by Marc coming over to hip bump him, something he’s a little touched by, because Marc gets his game face on as soon as he steps on the ice for warm ups, usually.

“You okay?” Marc asks, low, after Buchanan skates away.

“Sure,” Ulf says, but he still can’t bring himself to look, to see if there are eyes on him, to see if there aren’t.

“He has been watching you,” Marc says, and Ulf looks over then, but Carson’s back is to him, and he doesn’t know if Marc just said that to be kind, let him think it wasn’t all in his own head, that he wasn’t missing someone who didn’t think of him at all.

Acosta, who is looking, gives him a quick wave, and Ulf raises a hand back, still watching the breadth of Carson’s back as he takes pot shots at the net.

“You have to warm up,” Marc says quietly, and when Ulf nods, brings himself to turn away, Carson still hasn’t turned around.


	56. Vinny/Tony; romantic getaway

“I’m not going camping again,” Anton says, before he comes up to Sudbury.

Thomas remembers how excited he was the first time he got invited to camp out with him and his dad like it was only a year ago. And it was. 

Anton didn’t stay excited long. He isn’t really the outdoorsy type.

“I got eaten alive,” Anton says, and that’s true. It was the first time Thomas camped out without getting a single mosquito bite, probably because every single mosquito in the area went for Tony. “I almost died.”

“Okay, now you’re being dramatic,” Thomas says.

“My legs swelled up!” Anton says. “I need those for my job.”

And he took one anti-histamine and was fine, if very itchy. Really, really itchy. Thomas knows that, because every time he was itchy, he complained about being itchy, and he was apparently itchy  _all the time_.

“We can camp in the backyard again,” Thomas says. It’s kind of fun, feels like the grown up version of sleep overs when you’re a kid, it’s nice to know that if you forgot anything you can just run in and get it, and there are way less mosquitoes. “Just us. I’ll go camping with my dad before you come.”

Thomas does go camping with his dad, and gets bitten like crazy without Anton there drawing all the mosquitoes’ attention. He knows better than to complain to Anton about it, though. The day Anton comes he gets everything in the backyard set up with his dad’s help, the tent, the camp fire, which is really just their backyard fire pit, pulls the barbecue into the corner of the yard with help from the longest extension cord in the history of extension cords.

There’s still plenty of time before Anton’s flight comes in, Anton stuck on a layover in Toronto, so Thomas digs out the patio lanterns from the basement, a string of lights they usually use at Christmas, though they’re white, so Thomas thinks they’ll work. Candles — the citronella one that’s supposed to drive away mosquitoes, to save Anton’s skin and Thomas’ ears from Anton complaining about his skin, and the little tea lights that come in packs of a hundred that he liberally lines the walk with. He grabs his comforter from his room, though it might be a little hot, a spare set of sheets, because sleeping bags suck. The result is more tent blanket fort than tent for camping, but that’s fine. Thomas likes blanket forts.

“That looks less like camping and and more like a romantic couple’s getaway in our backyard,” his mom says when he’s finished decorating, and laughs when Thomas blushes. “You want us to close all the blinds? Give you two some privacy?”

“Mom!” Thomas says.

*

Anton is grumpy and ruffled when Thomas picks him up from the airport, so like. He’s Tony. Thomas missed him kind of a lot.

It takes awhile for Thomas to start the car back up after Anton gets in, face tucked in Anton’s throat, breathing in the stale smell of airplanes over his aftershave, finally lets go with a kiss snuck to the edge of his jaw.

“You eat on the plane?” Thomas asks, and Anton shakes his head. Flying gets Anton hungry, so Thomas stops at the drive-thru on their way back to his parents’, Anton getting through two burgers and scowling every time Thomas takes a hand off the wheel to steal a fry.

“You said you weren’t hungry,” Anton says as Thomas stuffs another in his mouth.

“I’m not,” Thomas says. “But they’re french fries.”

“That doesn’t even make sense,” Anton says, but eventually nudges the fries closer so Thomas doesn’t have to reach as far with a muttered ‘don’t want you driving us off the road for a fucking fry’.

Anton gets swarmed by his parents basically the second they get out of the car, and Thomas grabs his suitcase, grinning at the surprised, pleased look on Tony’s face. He’s been coming here for years, long before they got together, and every single time he still seems shocked that Thomas’ parents like him.

Thomas puts the suitcase in his old room — there isn’t room for both of them on the bed, unfortunately, which is one of the reasons he wanted to do this. One of them will take the couch tomorrow, but tonight, Thomas wants to sleep with Anton. It’s one of the things he missed the most.

His parents let them free after peppering Anton with questions for awhile, his mom smirking at him when he leads Anton outside, along with all the provisions.

“It’s hot outside,” Anton complains.

“We’re camping,” Thomas says firmly, and goes to put the cooler beside the tent, turning around when Anton doesn’t follow him, standing still in the middle of the lawn.

“This isn’t camping,” Anton says, “It’s like—”

“My mom called it a romantic couple’s getaway,” Thomas says, walking back over to him, and Anton looks embarrassed but, Thomas thinks, sort of pleased.

“Romantic couple’s getaway in Sudbury,” he says under his breath, but he’s smiling.

“Hey,” Thomas says. “Sudbury can be romantic.”

“Couple’s trip to the Nickel?” Anton asks sceptically.

“Couple’s trip to my backyard,” Thomas says. “Very romantic.”

Anton smiles down at his feet.

“Eh?” Thomas says, nudging Anton’s knee with him. “Eh?”

“Very romantic,” Anton agrees. “Right up until I get eaten alive again.”

“Ah, but that’s where the piece de resistance comes in,” Thomas says, rummaging through the bag of supplies. “Voila.”

“Bug spray?” Anton says, when Thomas holds it out.

“Bug spray,” Thomas says.

“So romantic,” Anton says, a little dryly, but that doesn’t stop him from spraying half the bottle on himself.

The mosquitoes come out pretty strong during twilight, but they eat hotdogs and grilled pineapple with the citronella candle in arm’s reach, Anton reeking of bug spray, and they manage to get through it unbitten, so Thomas thinks it is, in fact, a great romantic gesture, saving Tony from being eaten alive.

They start the fire when it gets dark, Anton chirping Thomas’ fire starting skills but not doing anything to actually help him. He laughs at Thomas when he produces marshmallows, but he eats more of them than Thomas does, burning them to a crisp and insisting they taste better that way.

It’s not the same as really camping, obviously: there’s tons of lights, not just from the candles and the fire and the repurposed Christmas lights, but from the houses around them, the back porch light on so they don’t trip and knock their heads open if they have to head into the house to go to the bathroom. The inside bathroom thing is a big improvement over normal camping, though.

One by one the lights in the neighbourhood go out as people go to bed, the tea lights long dead, and Thomas kills the fire too as Anton inspects the tent-slash-blanket fort he made for them to sleep in.

“Okay,” Anton says. “This was actually kind of romantic,” and his cheek is warm from the fire when Thomas presses a kiss against it, mouth curving into a smile that Thomas catches against his own.


	57. Bryce, Flames press; soundbites

The thing is, Marcus clearly doesn’t seem to realise that they want to talk to him just about as much as he wants to talk to them. Getting soundbites that aren’t useless, littered with ‘likes’, ‘I means’, a bunch of prattle that means nothing: it’s basically impossible. And to be fair, that’s not exactly uncommon: none of these dudes are stunningly articulate, and verbal crutches tend to proliferate when you haven’t had time to rehearse an answer.

So maybe Liz can’t complain about that, not without complaining about the entire Flames roster. But at least none of the others seem intent on making the reporters feel as uncomfortable as he does, with the exception of maybe if you’re interviewing Lawrence after he’s been pulled, because do that at your peril.

It was bad enough when Marcus strolled in two years ago, cocky as shit, like he knew exactly what everyone said about him — and probably did, thus the cocky as shit thing. It might be hard not to get a swelled head when everyone’s talking about you like you’re the only Flame that matters, but it seems like he didn’t even try. 

It didn’t take long after he came for everyone to silently groan about interviewing him — Liz has exchanged more than a few pained looks with…honestly everyone who covers the Flames by now — and Liz swears, instead of getting better, he’s gotten actively worse. It’s not the verbal crutches that make it impossible, it’s the way if a question has any hint of criticism he gets his back up, if he doesn’t unilaterally decide he’s done talking entirely, like he thinks their job is to shower him with praise just like the fanbase does.

Liz wonders what his meetings with the Paulson are like, if his GM dares to offer a critique he’s leaping out of the seat and storming away. Probably not, but if anyone would, it’d be him.

Her phone explodes the night the Flames are knocked out of contention by the Oilers. She’d been in the middle of working on a retrospective of the season, where the Flames went wrong — getting knocked out with only a week in the season remaining was better than the situation had been in years, but at the same time, during the halfway point they looked like they might have a spot sewn up. She has to drop it when an eyewitness report comes in, then a confirmation from one of the Flames she has in her phone book when she texts him, a middle of the night confirmation from Flames PR, who must be as fucking exhausted as she is, official confirmation Marcus had been released from jail.

She doesn’t sleep until seven in the morning, after it’s all been reported, out, and when she does, the retrospective’s still half unfinished.

The offseason’s supposed to be when she gets somewhat of a life back, but she guesses she should be grateful to Marcus for changing it up so that she isn’t just running down every trade rumour murmured, waiting out to see if Flames front office is going to offer Patterson an extension or if he’s going to go to market, hoping for  _something_ worth reporting.

 _Headline suggestion: Rich White Jackass Acts Like Rich White Jackass, Suffers Zero Consequences_ Trisha texts her while she’s reading through the official statement Marcus’ agent put out.

 _If it wouldn’t get me fired I’d do it in an instant_ , Liz texts her back.

 _I’m taking my services to Deadspin_ ,Trisha texts, and Liz honestly hopes they take her up on it.


	58. Bryce, Flames; tolerability

“What the fuck is up with Marcus?” Patterson asks, and Patrick, trying to be subtle, turns to look at him. He’s not doing anything to beg the question, Patrick thinks, just eating lunch while smiling down at his phone as he types something one handed.

“Uh,” Patrick says.

“He’s been weird since training camp,” Patter says, and Patrick shrugs, because he hasn’t noticed anything. “Luke?” Patter says.

“Kinda,” Morris says, not looking up from his phone.

“Nothing’s really stuck out to me,” Patrick says.

“You don’t get it,” Patter says. “Because you weren’t here the last two seasons.”

“Explain it to me one Patty to another then,” Patrick says. He vaguely remembers Marcus from his last season with the Flames, before Marcus got shipped down so they wouldn’t blow the first year of his ELC, before Patrick got shipped out to Dallas, sticking around just long enough to almost get used to the weather before Dallas shipped him right on back. Marcus was very…eighteen. Now he’s not. Obviously.

“He’s not acting like himself,” Patter says. “At all.”

“He seems to be acting pretty normal to me,” Patrick says. He’s not super outgoing or anything, kind of keeps to himself, a little separate, but there are guys like that on every team. They’re not suddenly all best buds just because they’re all wearing the same logo.

“That’s the  _thing_ ,” Patter says. “That’s  _weird_.”

“How so?” Patrick asks.

“He hasn’t pissed me off once this week,” Patter says, and Patrick blinks.

“I don’t know why you guys give a shit about why,” Morris says, finally looking up from his phone. “Just be thankful he’s fucking tolerable for once.”

“Yeah, but if he gets intolerable again, I’d like to know how the hell to reverse it,” Patter says.

Morris shrugs, goes back to his phone, loose in his right hand, which looks honestly horrible, more like he got it mangled than got into a fight.

“Did Dr. Ito even look at that?” Patrick asks. He’s not squeamish — it’s hard to be squeamish after the stretch after stretch of bad luck, injury wise, he’s had — but his hands look rough. Morris is using his fork in his left hand, and Patrick’s pretty sure he’s a rightie. His left’s not great, all scabbed up, but his right is so swollen you’d think he fought an hour ago, not two nights ago. Patrick has no idea how he’s even going to get it in his glove, let alone close it around his stick tonight.

“My hands are fine,” Morris says.

“Dude, you can’t even close your fis—” Patrick says.

“They’re fine,” Morris repeats.

Patrick glances over at Patter, who shrugs unhelpfully.

“Maybe don’t get into a fight tonight?” Patrick suggests, but they’re playing Edmonton, so it’s probably inevitable.

“Brouwer’s so fucking hard headed I’d break my goddamn hand,” Morris says, and Patrick bites back a comment about how he looks like he’s already halfway there already.

*

Patrick pays more attention to Marcus now that Patter’s brought it to his attention. He really isn’t doing anything that would garner attention, at least off the ice. On ice he garners plenty, not just because of his offence, but because he always seems to _take_ offence, dangerously easy to rile up, which other teams take advantage of constantly. Patrick’s good at playing short handed, but he doesn’t  _want_  to.

But off the ice, he’s boring. Attached to his phone more often than not, doesn’t talk a lot, doesn’t seem to click with the roster much, which doesn’t surprise him, if Patter and Dukes calling him intolerable is any sign of the general consensus. Patrick feels bad about that, tries to talk to him when he’s being especially loner, and he’s kind of awkward when Patrick does, but totally fine.

Patrick really doesn’t get it.

Well, Patrick doesn’t get it until Marcus comes into the room with a scowl that practically leaps from his face. It’s hard not to pay attention to him for once, because he dresses — angrily, for one, but also loudly. The amount of aggression he puts into taping his stick is kind of insane.

“There he is,” Patter mutters. “Great.”

Patrick’s stall isn’t anywhere near Marcus’, but he stops by on his way to have a word with Carmichael, since no one else is. Usually a job for the C, but Patrick will take it, because if Marcus goes on the ice still fuming like that, Patrick has a feeling he’ll be taking a few more shorthanded shifts.

“You okay, dude?” Patrick says.

“Fine,” Marcus says, bitten off.

“You don’t really seem—”

“I’m fucking fine, okay?” Marcus snaps.

“Okay,” Patrick says, holds his hands up. “If you need anything—”

“I don’t,” Marcus says, and goes back to taping the shit out of his stick like he’s trying to strangle it.

“I don’t know why you bothered,” Patter says, unprompted, when Patrick gets back to his stall.

“Dude seems upset,” Patrick says.

“Nah, he’s just back to normal,” Patter says. “He jumps from like, pissy bitch to fucking frat bro, with nothing in between. Except the weirdness lately.”

“Patter,” Patrick says.

“Seriously,” Patter says. “We got a break for a bit, but I guarantee you’re just seeing the shit everyone else already did. He’s a fucking pain in the ass.”

Except that isn’t true, in the end, because after a few days Marcus goes back to normal: nose in his phone most of the time, kind of on the edge of things, but no real pissiness, at least not off the ice, where there are still a few moments. It’s really not a good thing that Morris is the only one ahead of him in penalty minutes, especially since a chunk of Morris’ are fighting majors.

After a win against San Jose Patrick wanders over to Marcus’ stall, where he, once again, is on his phone.

“You want to come out with us?” Patrick says, and Marcus blinks a few times, like he doesn’t think Patrick’s talking to him. “I mean,” Patrick adds. “You got the game winner, you should come celebrate.”

“Sure,” he says, after a moment, smiling so wide Patrick feels kind of bad for him, and even worse when Patter huffs a little when Marcus sits down across from him at the bar, something Marcus must notice if Patrick does.

Patrick makes a point to ask him out more after that.


	59. David/Jake; perks of retirement

David looks suspicious. Jake’s not really surprised. He is surprised David’s willing to go along with it: he never would have during his career, but even after, Jake expected him to hold out. As far as Jake’s aware, the only ‘substance’ David’s ever put in his system in his entire life is booze, and even then, Jake can count on maybe one hand how many times he’s seen him more than moderately tipsy. David doesn’t really trust not being in control of himself.

His first toke goes about as well as you’d expect, considering.

“Coughing’s good,” Jake says encouragingly.

David glares at him, face red.

“It is,” Jake says. “It makes it work faster.”

“Why do you know this,” David rasps disapprovingly.

“I was a teenager once?” Jake says. And the offseason existed. And retirement kind of left him at loose ends at the start, and Nat’s a bad influence. Jake’s never tried to hide it from David: if he’d asked, Jake would have immediately told the truth, but it’s kind of a testament to who David is that he didn’t even think of it.

He says that all out loud, and David scowls deeper.

“You don’t get to scowl, you’re doing it right now,” Jake points out. He’s pretty sure David’s only doing it because Volkie teased him into it, but he’s also pretty sure this is going to be hilarious, so he doesn’t mind too much.

He’s always been kind of curious how David would act: he’s seen reactions range from like, sleepy and lazy (him), to philosophical (Allie, and it’s funny until she keeps poking him to tell him like, that the universe is expanding and isn’t he  _terrified_?) to eating everything in sight (also him, kinda, but definitely Nat, who gets all creative in the kitchen and makes the best munchies ever), to thinking everything in the world is hilarious (Gally, but to be fair, he always does), to cuddly (Parey, weirdly, and it’s adorable), to horny.

Jake’s maybe hoping for the last one? They’ve had drunk sex before, and it’s kind of great even when it isn’t, just because David’s willing to actually ask for what he wants. He’s gotten better at doing that over the years, but there’s always this split second of hesitation there that disappears only if he’s been drinking. And maybe if he’s high. A man can hope at least. Jake hates that David’s still – always – a little self-conscious, like he still – always – doesn’t know how fucking amazing he is.

“Jake,” David says. “I feel weird.”

David’s only had like, a toke and a half — Jake’s definitely hogged the joint — which wouldn’t even get Jake buzzed, but it  _is_  his first time.

“What kind of weird?” Jake asks.

David hums, like he’s thinking about it, and then puts his head on Jake’s shoulder.

“Good weird,” he decides, and hums again, happy sounding this time, when Jake runs his fingers through his hair.

Cuddly, then. It’s not Jake’s dream, but he’s happy to take it. Jake’s up for a cuddle any time.

David doesn’t move at all, head getting heavier and heavier on Jake’s shoulder, so Jake thinks he might be the sleepy and lazy kind too. Awesome. They can be lazy together.

“Falling asleep there, babe?” Jake asks.

“Mmm,” David mumbles.

“You know what’s awesome high?” Jake says. “Nature documentaries.” David likes those things sober, so he’s gonna love ‘em.

Jake makes sure not to pick any of the ones on carnivores — the last thing they need is to get all heartbroken about some gazelle, not that Jake knows from experience or anything — and arranges them on the couch, David draping himself more in Jake’s lap than out of it.

“Nature’s so amazing,” David says ten minutes in, all wide eyed, and Jake grins into the kiss he presses to his hair.


	60. Gabe/Stephen; brotherhood

It was supposed to be a pretty run of the mill profile. Sports section of a local magazine that was starved for any hockey content during the offseason to wedge between football and soccer. Both the BC Lions and Vancouver Whitecaps were having awful seasons, so maybe the article was partly a ‘hey, remember our hockey team? Our one not bad team right now?’.

They say they want to do a profile on a veteran, but Gabe’s pretty sure he gets tapped more for being around than anything. Him and Stephen came back a month earlier than planned, because Toronto was in a heat wave that wouldn’t quit, and apparently they’re both soft Vancouverites now. Gabe doesn’t even mind the chirps if it means they’re free of forty degree humidity.

They ask to do it at his place, which Stephen gives the thumbs up and plans to disappear during. He ends up being lazy that day, sticks around, and Gabe thought it might be a problem, but the article comes out two weeks later, and uh. Apparently not.

‘— with roommate Stephen Petersen, whose name may be familiar to some hockey fans: he was a promising young player for the Pittsburgh Penguins before a devastating injury ended his hockey career at twenty-one. Now he lives in Vancouver with his childhood friend — Markson says they’ve known each other ‘practically since birth’, and they’ve been inseparable since. 

Petersen stopped in the living room briefly to offer me refreshments and chirp Markson about being a big shot interview subject: after twenty-five years of friendship, they really appear to be more like brothers than friends.’

“Okay, I was kind of nervous Carriere would pick up on us being together, but apparently I  _really_ didn’t need to worry about that,” Gabe says, after he finishes reading that portion aloud. Stephen doesn’t say anything. “Stephen?”

“Did he clear the article with you before publication?” Stephen asks.

“No? It was pretty informal,” Gabe says, then, at Stephen’s thundercloud face, “What’s up?”

“‘They really appear to be more like brothers than friends’,” Stephen says.

Gabe can’t say he’d prefer the media speculating about whether Stephen and him are a couple, but apparently they’re not even considering it. It takes a special kind of heteronormativity to see ‘Stephen literally moved across the country to live with Gabe’ as ‘just bros, dude’. 

They’re not going around telling anyone whose business it isn’t they’re a couple, but it’s not like they’re being all that stealth. Gabe absolutely guarantees if he had the same relationship from an outsider view with a woman, no one would be going around saying they were ‘more brother and sister than friends’.

But Gabe’s not mad about it or anything. And definitely not the level of mad Stephen apparently is, judging by his face: it’s funny, because he’s just as private about their relationship as Gabe is, but apparently having it completely ignored is a no go.

“You’re pissed,” Gabe says, because that’s obvious.

“This is like the way they used to talk about gay couples,” Stephen says. “Like the historical ones. Doesn’t matter how much evidence there is, it’s all no homo.”

“Huh?” Gabe asks.

“You read that book I gave you for Hanukkah,” Stephen says. “I saw you read it.”

“Oh yeah,” Gabe says. “Like how King James totally built a secret tunnel for his boyfriend because they were having super non-gay sleepovers that definitely in no way involved sex?”

“Favourite,” Stephen says.

“What?” Gabe asks.

“Villiers was his favourite,” Stephen says.

“I mean, obviously,” Gabe says. “He built him a tunnel.”

“You know I’m using it as a noun and not an adjective,” Stephen says.

“Is it like a pet name?” Gabe asks, and when Stephen frowns at him, probably all ready to once again be all ‘Gabriel, I know you read the book, if you are playing dumb just to distract me from being pissed, I am unimpressed and also onto you’, “Do you want me to call you my favourite?”

“I  _am_  your favourite,” Stephen says, with deserved confidence. He’s been Gabe’s favourite since they were about two. Apparently before that point Gabe could take him or leave him. Infant Gabe was stupid.

“You are,” Gabe says. “My very favourite Petersen sibling—”

“I thought that was Anna,” Stephen says. “You told Anna she was your favourite.”

“I lied to Anna,” Gabe says. “She’s a teenager, and she needs validation. You are unquestionably my favourite Petersen sibling.”

“You’re using sibling like ‘the three of you are my siblings’, aren’t you,” Stephen says, with an extra unimpressed voice.

“I am,” Gabe says. “Bro.”

Stephen cracks a reluctant looking smile.

“Homie,” Gabe says. “Guy I am literally common-law married to according to my taxes, but no homo.”

“You’re a dork,” Stephen says, amused, and Gabe inwardly pats himself on the back for banishing the thundercloud face, makes absolutely sure to seal the deal by kissing Stephen’s nose, which gets Stephen wrinkling his nose at him, shoving his face away, and laughing.


	61. Brandon/Milan; gauntlet

For those who didn’t have access to the most recent update on Patreon, the key takeaways from that was that Milan a) went to the game Brandon gave him tickets for, and then b) saw Brandon with a teammate and realised who he was.

Contains…many italics, in Milan’s time of need.

He’s a Flyer.

He’s a fucking  _Flyer._

Milan has been corresponding with a  _Flyer._  For  _weeks_.

Actually, he’s probably been corresponding with  _multiple_ Flyers, considering the various handwriting, the varying levels of Penguins trashing. Puts a whole new spin on Milligan’s ‘my friends are dicks who think they’re funny’ and the ‘I really wish I could’ when Milan told him to get better ones.

A note Milan’s just reread, because he’s found himself going through them again, one by one, wondering if there was some hint he missed, some smug little shitty thing that proved Milligan was holding that knowledge above his head, laughing about it with his friends — other  _Flyers_ — ‘get a load of that stupid Penguins fan who keeps slipping notes under my door’.

Honestly though, the ones with his handwriting seem — genuinely nice? Basically telling Milan he doesn’t care who he cheers for and you know, once including tickets worth literally hundreds of dollars. The only thing that really stands out in hindsight is his ‘ Busy that night’ when Milan invited him to the game, because well — of course he was. He was on the fucking ice. Still, it doesn’t seem…mocking? There doesn’t seem to be this undertone of ‘hah, little do you know, you idiot’, more of a dude trying to atone for his asshole friends.

His asshole  _Flyer_  friends.

It doesn’t really break Milan’s worldview or anything, Milligan not seeming like an asshole. As far as Flyers go, Milligan isn’t the worst one, or even close to it. He’s only been with them for a few years, so Milan doesn’t have a hate on for him like he does some of the vets, because when it comes to rivalries, familiarity breeds seething rage. You can’t really invest your feelings in the journeymen: Milan saves the full hate ons for the franchise players, or the especial dickheads, and Milligan’s never really seemed like one of them.

Still, Milan feels — betrayed?

That’s stupid, probably. Which leads him to the other thing he’s feeling, which is stupid. Stupid that he’s invested time and energy in this ridiculous back and forth. He’s probably become a fucking in joke for the Philadelphia Flyers, and if that wasn’t humiliating enough, he’s not feeling as pissed about it as he is, well. He said betrayed already. He just — he doesn’t know many people in Philly. Finding a note on his car in the morning was something interesting that happened, human interaction outside of work or calls to his family. And of course it was a joke. He’s a joke.

Obviously, Milan isn’t planning on writing any more letters, but unfortunately he’d already slid a note under Milligan’s door thanking him for the tickets to the game before he’d seen him with Zatovic, put it all together. They must have laughed at it together. They beat the Penguins at home and had a Pens fan fucking thanking them for the privilege of seeing them do it.

Of course, of course, Milan has a note waiting for him on his windshield the next morning. Milan considers tossing it, has even reached the balling it up portion, but he’s too curious for his own good, so he smoothes it out on the hood of his car to read.

_Hey Pens fan,_

Milan seethes.

_Glad you liked the seats, sorry the game didn’t go the way you wanted it to._

He is  _not_  fucking sorry the game didn’t go the way Milan wanted it to, considering  _his team won._

_Let me know if you want any other tix, I get them from work for free -_

No shit he does.

_— and I don’t really get a chance to use them._

Because he’s  _playing._

_Maybe next time your Pens will have better luck!_

_\- Your neighbour in 203_

Milligan’s signed it like a fucking Brit — well, Canadian, possibly, which he probably is — and then, insult to injury, he added a smiley face.

“Why do you have to be nice,” Milan hisses at the paper, but it has no answers, just stares back mockingly with that little smiley.

*

Milan doesn’t respond, of course, and it’s weird, but he feels guilty about it. This shit’s on Milligan, not him. Milan wasn’t the one lying, by omission or otherwise. Milan has absolutely nothing to feel guilty about.

Still, he keeps looking his car over when he gets out in the morning, checking to see if there’s a note, and after a week there is one.

_I don’t know if you’d want to go to a Pens free game, but here are two tickets to one against the Rangers next week. Feel free to cheer against the Flyers._

He ends it with a smiley again, and Milan just — doesn’t get it, what he’s doing here, what there is to gain from this. Milan doubts the tickets cost him anything, but he probably would have needed to ask for them, and Milan doesn’t see the point. Maybe some kind of apology for his teammates? Except the first pair of tickets were more than enough for that, and so anything beyond that — Milan doesn’t get it.

He thinks about it all day at work. Hates that he does, that he’s so distracted. It’s just a letter. Well, that and a pair of tickets that are even better than the last. He shouldn’t accept them, but something in him rebels against returning them, or, god forbid, letting them go to waste, even if the Pens aren’t playing. His dad would be appalled by him turning down any opportunity to see a game for free, but — look, they say don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, but maybe that isn’t the case when the present’s from a  _Flyer._

He scribbles a few responses while he’s sitting in an interminably long meeting, finally settles on one that strikes the balance, slips it beneath Milligan’s door when he gets home.

 _Only if you come with me,_  Milan throws down like a gauntlet, kind of interested in seeing what lie Milligan will pull out this time, trying to squirm his way out of it, keep Milan in the dark.


	62. Ulf/Carson; perfectionism

They’re at the tail end of their longest road trip of the season, and it’s wearing on all of them. It’s been a good one, game wise, but even a win streak can’t help anyone muster up any energy to go anywhere but straight to their hotel rooms when they land in Sunrise, beautiful day or not.

“Tired,” Carson groans, going down face first onto his mattress without taking off anything but his shoes. Ulf takes that as an invitation to lay right on top of him.

“Get off,” Carson says. Ulf can hear his scowl. “You’re heavy.”

“I’m perfect,” Ulf says. That’s a direct quote from when he had his last check in with the nutritionist, who told him to continue doing whatever he was doing, to try not to gain or lose any weight. Easier said than done in the middle of the season. Ulf doesn’t have a lot of fat to spare right now.

“Just because you hear that a lot doesn’t mean it’s true,” Carson says into his pillow.

“I’m perfect,” Ulf repeats, then pokes Carson’s side. “Say it.”

“Nope,” Carson says, then tries to wriggle out from under him. Ulf makes himself dead-weight, and Carson groans again, louder.

“You’re crushing me,” Carson says, flailing uselessly for a moment before he manages to get an elbow in Ulf’s side. Even without leverage he gets enough in it that Ulf thinks it’s the better part of valor to avoid getting another, rolling off Carson to lie down beside him.

He can see just enough of Carson’s face to catch the genuinely exhausted look on it. His eyes look bruised, and the underside of his chin actually is bruised from a clip of a stick he caught two games back. His mouth is turned down in a frown Ulf doubts Carson even knows he’s wearing. It doesn’t look right, so Ulf decides to get rid of it.

He presses his mouth against Carson’s jaw, prickly with stubble so faint and ginger he can’t see it, only feels it under his mouth, his cheek, detours to nip at Carson’s ear before he catches the corner of Carson’s lips. Ulf can taste the edge of Carson’s smile against his mouth, nudges Carson’s cheek with his nose until Carson turns his head enough so he can kiss him properly.

“Too tired to fuck around?” Ulf asks when he pulls back. Carson sits up and starts unbuttoning his shirt, which Ulf is going to take as a no.

Carson looks even more exhausted after said fucking around, but he seems happier about it, at least. Endorphins are a hell of a drug. Definitely Ulf’s drug of choice.

“You’re perfect,” Carson mumbles almost accusingly.

“You’re come dumb,” Ulf says. He learned the expression last week, and it perfectly describes the dozy sweep of Carson’s lashes, the lingering traces of a smile on his mouth, the way he’s holding on for once, fingers curled around Ulf’s hip, instead of getting up, getting dressed. Getting away, it feels like sometimes.

“Yeah,” Carson says. “Probably. Take it or leave it, Larssy.”

Ulf will take it.


	63. Andreas, Dave, Bryce/Jared; hits keep coming

Andreas should have expected it. Not — not the context of the call Dave gets from Marcus, because he didn’t expect that at all, but it’s been too long since Marcus made Dave tear out his hair. You could think that was him growing up, but Andreas has learned by now that the less generous your interpretations of people’s actions are, the less likely you are to be disappointed.

Andreas hasn’t had particularly generous interpretations about Bryce Marcus for years now.

Obviously of all the reasons Dave’s gotten a call regarding Marcus, this one isn’t — well, Andreas is obviously not going to judge a guy for having a boyfriend. Glass houses, stones. He feels for him, for possibly the first time. Feels for Dave too, because this one isn’t a fuck up, but it’s still going to be one of those things keeping Dave up at night, worrying it’ll come out. Literally.

“Do you have a secret built-in gaydar?” Andreas asks. “Because I’m starting to wonder about your client base, Dave.”

“If I had I would have avoided—” Dave says, then looks stricken. “You know I don’t mean—”

“I know, Dave,” Andreas says.

“I have absolutely no problem—” Dave starts. Most people starting that sentence are people who do, but Andreas knows Dave isn’t one of them. Knows for Dave it’s the constant worry of a client being outed against his will — it’s hardly impossible. It happened to Riley. And Dave’s comfort zone is contract talks, not handling media. If there was suddenly a hockey playing robot model, well, that’d be Dave’s ideal client. Less personal life to potentially come back to haunt them.

“I know, Dave,” Andreas says again, gentle.

*

After what was in hindsight a blissfully Marcus free stretch — well, excepting his contract, and from what Dave said he was a little shit about it, but personal life wise it was quiet — the hits come fast and furious.

“Are you  _fucking_  kidding me,” Dave yells. Andreas hopes he’s yelling at the wall and not a client, but he can’t be sure. He makes sure to tread lightly on his way into Dave’s office, holding a donut in front of him as a peace offering. Dave sounds pissed enough, Andreas wants to make sure he’s not hangry to boot.

“What’s up?” Andreas says, and then, because Dave’s face is a thundercloud personified, “Donut?”

Dave snatches it from his hands, eats it about three bites. Some icing sugar lingers on his lips, but Andreas isn’t stupid enough to mention it — that’s the sort of opening Dave will take to complain that everything in his life is terrible, and then, just in case Andreas doubts him, he’ll list exactly what is terrible. It’s usually a lot.

“Remember Marcus’ boyfriend?” Dave asks, after the donut’s been devoured. Andreas wonders if he even tasted it.

“Hard not to,” Andreas says.

“Guess what,” Dave says flatly.

“They already broke up and we spent hours planning shit out for nothing?” Andreas guesses.

“Worse,” Dave says.

“Someone’s got a picture?” Andreas says. “Or someone made a comment on—”

“You know what, stop guessing,” Dave says. “Marcus neglected to mention the fact he’s also a player.”

“Hockey?” Andreas asks, and Dave nods, short. “NHL?”

Dave’s response is a laugh that is — well, the opposite of mirthful, so Andreas is going to take that as a yes.

“Guess who he plays for,” Dave says.

“Am I actually supposed to guess this time, or—” Andreas says.

“The Oilers,” Dave interrupts. “Guess who I was just talking to?”

“I don’t really think you want me to guess any of these,” Andreas says. “So: who?”

“Boyfriend’s agent,” Dave says. “Marcus is such a cowardly little shit he let the fucking agent break the news to me.”

“Christ,” Andreas says, sits down in the chair across from Dave.

“Right?” Dave asks.

“Do you think it’s too late for me to get drafted?” Andreas says. “Because apparently the number of eligible guys is—”

Dave throws a pen at him.


	64. Roman/Evan/Harry; to the victor goes the spoils

Roman knew it was a stupid fucking idea the moment Harry suggested it. He, in fact, told Harry it was a stupid fucking idea, but Harry never listens to him, and Connie, who he does listen to, thought it was a good idea too. Connie also didn’t seem to think there was a problem combining Harry’s absolutely horrible idea with alcohol.

Sweet, innocent Connie. Sometimes it’s like he doesn’t even know his boyfriend is a pathologically competitive nutjob who overreacts to literally everything.

Roman would like to note he’s talking about Harry, not that anyone could confuse them. For one, Roman reacts like a normal person to losing a game of fucking Uno: that is, not like this.

“You cheated,” Harry hisses.

“I cheated at Uno,” Roman says. “At Uno.”

“You can’t just stack those cards,” Harry says. “That’s against the rules.”

Roman nudges the rules across the table with one finger, and Harry, in return, gives him a finger of his own.

“Monopoly?” Evan asks.

“Oh fuck no,” Roman says. “It’ll take three hours and end with Harry flipping the board over when he loses.”

“I won’t lose,” Harry says.

“Uno and Trivial Pursuit imply otherwise,” Roman says.

“I refuse to believe you didn’t just guess the smallest bone in the body,” Harry says. “That was a trick question.”

“Yeah, it’s not like I studied kinesiology in college or anything,” Roman says. “Anatomy definitely never came into play there.”

“I’ll show you anatomy,” Harry mutters insensibly.

“Are you suggesting strip poker right now?” Roman asks.

“No,” Harry says, then, “Well…”

*

“Watch doesn’t count as clothing, Con,” Roman says. “Shorts off.”

Connie fiddles with the waistband of his boxers. “I’m out now, though, right?”

“Shorts off,” Roman repeats. “It’s nothing we haven’t seen before a hundred times, Sweetheart,” he adds, because Connie’s going pink.

“You can stay in and play for favors,” Harry suggests. He looks pretty smug for someone who’s wearing all of one more article of clothing than Connie, and is going to be losing his shorts pretty damn soon himself. Though, considering Roman’s only lost his socks, he’s absolutely fine with the game going the way of favors. “I think we’re both totally cool with that.”

“No argument here,” Roman says.

“It’s cold in here,” Connie hedges.

“Evan Connelly, are you refusing to be an honorable opponent?” Harry chirps, which has the intended effect of getting Connie naked. There’s a whole lot of Connie to look at there. For obvious reasons — the kid’s a giant, and he just keeps putting on muscle, lost a lot of the lankiness he used to have, so there’s just…a lot of him. Takes awhile to give him a once over. Longer if you linger, and Roman’s lingering.

It’s funny, because Roman can’t even count how many times he’s seen Connie naked — they share a damn locker room, so it was already plenty before they got together, though Roman tried — and still tries — not to look in that context — but there’s something in how out of place it is right now, Connie buck naked at Harry’s kitchen table, the only one of them that is.

Harry has also gotten kind of distracted. Roman doesn’t have a lot of faith that this game’s going to keep going. Unless —

“Want to change the stakes?” Roman asks.

“Huh?” Harry says, reluctantly tearing his eyes away from Connie.

“Winner of this hand takes all?” Roman asks, glancing back over at Connie, and Harry looks confused for a minute, then grins.

“I’m in,” he says.

“What’s all?” Connie asks, then, “Wait, are you playing for me?” sounding totally scandalized.

“Unless you have any objections,” Roman says.

Connie’s conspicuously silent.

*

“This is so fucking unfair,” Harry whines.

“You lost fair and square,” Roman says.

“The stakes didn’t include ostracism,” Harry says.

“It’s not ostracizing you to tell you to keep your hands to yourself,” Roman says. “You lost. You don’t get to touch.”

“You can’t be serious about this,” Harry says.

“You keep whining and I’m going to gag you, Chalmers,” Roman warns.

Harry swallows hard.

“You gonna keep at it?” Roman asks.

“I mean,” Harry says. “Probably.”

Roman presses his mouth to the hinge of Connie’s jaw, the corner of his mouth. “You think we should gag him?” he asks. “Or do you want to see him try to be good?”

Connie hums a little, looks over at Harry, who’s sulking on the edge of the bed he’s been told to stay put at. “Can you be good?” he asks.

“Probably not?” Harry says.

“Can you try for us?” Connie asks, and Harry doesn’t say anything, for once, just nods.


	65. Jess/Jeremy; silver linings

If there are any positives about a broken leg — well, maybe positives isn’t the right word, more ‘silver linings Jess should focus on so he doesn’t go nuts’ — it’s that Jess’ place looks a whole lot nicer than it did before he broke his leg.

Shame he’s sick as hell of it.

Jess misses driving so much. Not as much as playing hockey, obviously, but he’s pretty tired of getting anywhere being a whole production. Not that they’ve been going places much, for that exact reason. Grocery shopping would be a test of endurance. Jess has a feeling it would end in literal tears. 

They get groceries ordered, and when Jeremy feels up to cooking, which is most days, Jess has a much healthier meal than he would if Jeremy hadn’t moved in, because he barely cooked before staying on his feet sucked balls. On the days Jeremy doesn’t, they order delivery.

Other places they get delivery from: IKEA — Jeremy has maybe sparked a problem, because Jess has ordered more shoe racks for the apartment than make sense; an alcohol delivery service — don’t judge him, he’s off the heavy duty meds now, he’s allowed to have a beer with dinner; a freaking dry cleaning place that Jeremy found that does pick up and delivery, which is kind of amazing, considering their sorry asses have to suit up for the home games and sit in the sad sack injured box. Oh, and Amazon. Amazon’s dangerous.

Basically, they leave the house for doctor’s appointments, physio, games, and, when they’re both feeling a) not adverse to walking like, more than ten steps and b) tired of the apartment, to the place half a block away that makes really good coffee. Jeremy’s is good, definitely better than Jess’, but it’s not cafe level. Plus they do great smoothies.

Jess is going more than a little stir crazy, honestly, but at least thanks to the dangerous allure of online shopping, his apartment is a lot homier than it did before Jeremy moved in? They’ve got nice pillows on the couch and everything, which is nice, because the couch is — basically home now. This is your life, Jess Garcia: sitting on a couch until you die of boredom.

It’s better with Jeremy there at least. If Jess was stewing in his apartment alone he think stir crazy would have hit a whole lot earlier.

Sick of being at home or not, though, Jess can’t look forward to physio. Sure, they get to leave the apartment, but at what cost?

“Better for us in the long run,” Jeremy says as Jess complains the whole way there, but he doesn’t sound very convinced himself. Which is fair: he’s right, but again,  _at what cost_?

“Aw, the hobble twins are here,” Seb says, because physio was cruelly scheduled during a mandatory practice, just to rub their non-playing status in, Jess guesses.

Jess gives him the finger.

“I’m going to be this empathetic the next time you get injured,” Jess says. “Just so you know.”

“You’d be lost without me,” Seb says confidently.

“Maybe on the ice, but off it’ll be a relie—” Jess says. “Hey, I’m injured!”

“Your shoulder isn’t,” Seb says, though it is now. Well. Maybe not injured, but it hurts. Seb did not pull that punch.

Jess rubs his shoulder, scowling. “I’m telling Bob.” He’s pretty sure attacking the injured would not impress their physiotherapist, and Bob is scary. Jess half thinks the reason the Lightning are generally so healthy is because they all fear being in Bob’s merciless grip.

“Feel better boo,” Seb says, and blows him a kiss Jess refuses to catch. Maybe if his shoulder was intact he would have, Seb Boucher, but it isn’t, so the kiss is not accepted.

Jess is so over being injured right now. He scowls jealously as their teammates stream in for practice, drops it only when guys come over to say hi, pat him on the shoulder — actual pats, not Seb’s punch — because it’s not their fault they’re not injured, and Jess wouldn’t wish it on anyone, sitting on the outside of things, watching the team get along without him. He’s torn between gratitude that he doesn’t have to deal with the feeling alone, wishing Jeremy didn’t have to deal with that too.

“Attached at the hip still,” Cartsy says.

“Makes sense,” Jess says. “We only have two working legs between us. We could become like, mega-transformer Bolt.”

“You’re so lame,” Cartsy says, but Jeremy grins at him, so Jess stands by it.

Jeremy’s scheduled for physio first, but it kind of works out to overlap a bit, because obviously they’re coming and going together, and Bob is flexible about that. There is absolutely nothing in the world that can make physio bearable, but Jeremy being there makes it less unbearable. For one, Bob’s attention isn’t 100% on Jess, which is a plus, because like Jess said, he’s terrifying, and Jess forces himself to be less of a baby about things in front of Jeremy, which seems to make it actually hurt less? He doesn’t know. Fake being tough until you get there.

Jess is fucking wiped after, and sore everywhere, not just the constant ache of his leg, and Jeremy doesn’t look much better. Just walking outside to get picked up sounds like absolute torture.

“Can you wheel me outside?” Jess asks Bob, without much faith it’ll happen. He’s done pretending not to be a baby about things if that means he won’t have to walk.

“No,” Bob says flatly.

“Carry me?” Jess asks, then, because maybe the secret is flattery, “You look strong enough.”

“No,” Bob says.

Jess tried.

“Want to just…sit here for awhile?” Jess asks Jeremy.

“Get out,” Bob says, before Jeremy can answer. Bob is so cruel.

“Guess you can’t carry me, huh,” Jess says glumly to Jeremy.

“Not if you don’t want your neck broken too,” Jeremy confirms.

Jess sighs. “Want to get McDonald’s on the way home?” he asks. He thinks they deserve McDonald’s.

“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that if you get out,” Bob says.

“Not my nutritionist, Bob,” Jess says. “Hashbrowns?” he asks Jeremy. The only good thing in the world right now is all-day breakfast.

“Hashbrowns,” Jeremy agrees, and Jess makes himself get up for the hashbrowns, Jeremy offering him a hand.

Jess would like to revise his opinion. The only good things in the world are all-day breakfast and Jeremy Waxman.


	66. Dave, Bryce/Jared; ‘summers is so mad at me rn lol’

When Bryce’s phone rings, Bryce really, really doesn’t want to pick up. He does, though, because he knows Summers will just keep calling, and he’ll be even madder if Bryce waits.

“Yo,” Bryce says, hoping he sounds casual and not like, freaked out. He’s totally freaked out, but he can’t let Summers know that. Summers hits harder when Bryce is rattled.

“You know what I’m doing right now?” Summers asks. He sounds normal, not mad or anything, but considering he probably just talked to Jared’s agent, Bryce doesn’t believe it. He’s faking, probably trying to catch Bryce off-guard.

“No?” Bryce says, when Summers doesn’t continue, clearly waiting for an answer.

“I’m looking at Jared Matheson’s stats page,” Summers says.

Bryce has trouble swallowing. He knew — he knew if he gave Jared Summers’ number, Jared would give it to his agent, and his agent would call. That was the whole point of giving Jared the number. He just —

He doesn’t like this at all. He doesn’t like Jared’s name in Summers’ mouth.

“You know what strikes me about his page?” Summers asks.

“Um,” Bryce says. “He’s really good?”

“No,” Summers says. “His WHL stats are above average, but no.”

They’re not above average, they’re  _great_.

Bryce keeps himself from saying that — barely — because Summers clearly has a point he’s trying to make. Bryce hates when he has a point.

“How old is Matheson?” Summers asks.

Oh.

This point.

Bryce is really tired of this point. It’s not like Jared isn’t the most mature eighteen year old in the world. Bryce wasn’t half as mature as Jared when he was eighteen. Probably not even a quarter. He still isn’t as mature as Jared. He doesn’t think he ever will be.

“You have his stat page right in front of you,” Bryce mutters. He hates when people ask him questions they already know the answer to.

“That’s true,” Summers says. “How long have you been dating this kid?”

“He’s not a kid,” Bryce says.

“My bad,” Summers says. “This young — emphasis on young, here — adult.”

“A year,” Bryce says.

“A  _year_?” Summers squawks.

“—and two months,” Bryce continues. Well, it’ll be two months in two days, but Bryce thinks rounding up is allowed.

“He was seventeen when you started dating,” Summers says.

“Yeah?” Bryce says.

“A teenager,” Summers stresses, like Bryce somehow didn’t know that. “He’s  _still_  a teenager.”

“Eighteen’s an adult,” Bryce says.

“He’s four years younger than you!” Summers shouts. Bryce thinks Mr. Matheson would like Summers.

“So what?” Bryce says.

“So—” Summers says, then kind of sputters. “So wasn’t he in high school a few months ago?”

“Yeah,” Bryce says. “He graduated with like, practically all As.”

“I don’t care about his  _grades_ , Marcus,” Summers says.

“Well that’s kind of what school’s for,” Bryce says.

“Are you doing this on purpose?” Summers asks, then, “Of course you aren’t, you’re just—”

Bryce waits for Summers to tell him what he is, but he doesn’t.

“So he’s from Calgary,” Summers says. Bryce guesses he’s reading the other things on Jared’s page now. “Played for the Hitmen. That how you met? Saddledome?”

“No,” Bryce says. “I met him at that camp.”

“What camp?” Summers asks.

“The one you made me volunteer at,” Bryce says.

He holds his phone away from his ear just in time.

“You used your community service to get  _laid_?” Summers yells.

“It wasn’t about getting laid,” Bryce says, bristling. “That’s not what we—”

“Yes, sure, your love is pure,” Summers says, and Bryce doesn’t like how much sarcasm he says it with. “I still can’t fucking believe — that was not the point of the exercise!”

“It’s not like I went in like, expecting to fall in love, Dave!” Bryce says. “It just kind of happened!”

“Fuck’s sakes,” Summers says. “So I’m probably dealing with him still on the Hitmen, at least, that’s easier than—”

“You’re dealing with an Oiler,” Bryce interrupts.

“You seriously think he’s going to make the final roster?” Summers asks.

“If they’re smart,” Bryce says. “He’s really good.”

Summers makes a doubtful noise.

“What?” Bryce snaps.

“Six foot, one sixty-five?” Summers muses. “No way he’s getting far that skinny.”

“That’s outdated,” Bryce says. “He’s got to be close to one seventy-five now. And he’s definitely not two inches shorter than me.”

He doesn’t know why Summers even cares: Jared’s not his client. Probably just trying to piss Bryce off, and it’s working. Jared wasn’t ever skinny, and he’s been working really, really hard for that extra muscle.

He doesn’t know why all that leaves his mouth.

“This is serious, eh?” Summers asks, instead of snapping back for once.

“Yeah,” Bryce says.

“This isn’t going to end in three weeks and leave me—”

“It’s not going to end in three weeks,” Bryce says. “Or like, ever. So if that’s what you’re hoping for—”

“I’m not hoping for that,” Summers says.

Bryce snorts.

“I’m  _not_ ,” Summers says. “I want to have an idea of what I’m dealing with here. And I needed to know this a fucking year ago, Marcus.”

“I’m telling you now,” Bryce mutters.

“No,” Summers says. “Greg Anderson told me, you left it to him, you cowardly little shit.”

“I told you I had a boyfriend months ago,” Bryce says.

“And you didn’t think it was relevant to tell me he was a fucking  _player_?” Summers yells. “Really, Marcus? That didn’t seem like a fucking pertinent piece of information to share?”

Bryce bites back like, a dozen things he could say, because his mom would be upset if he said them. It’s really hard though. “You done?” he asks.

“Not any fucking time soon,” Summers says. “Who knows about your relationship? I want an exhaustive list. If they have even an inkling you two are more than friends, you need to tell me their name.”

“My mom,” Bryce says. “His parents and sister. Um, Rafael Sanchez, he’s—”

“I know who Rafael Sanchez is,” Summers mutters.

“Is he one of your clients too?” Bryce asks. Maybe Summers can tell him not to say anything. Jared said he wouldn’t, but Bryce has no way of knowing whether he can trust Sanchez on that. It’s a lot to trust him with. Bryce trusts his mom wouldn’t tell, Jared says his family wouldn’t, but Sanchez — Bryce hates that he knows.

“No,” Summers snaps. “Who else?”

“No one,” Bryce says.

“Really?” Summers asks, sounding sceptical.

“You think I  _want_  people to know about this, Summers?” Bryce asks. “I didn’t even want to tell you. My mom made me.”

“Thank god for Elaine,” Summers mutters. “And Jesus Christ, your  _mom_ _made you_? Are you fucking five years old, Marcus?”

“Can’t imagine why I wouldn’t want to tell you,” Bryce snaps back. “You’re reacting so great.”

“I can’t fucking—” Summers says. “I’ll talk this over with my assistant, let you know the game plan tomorrow, I can’t deal with you right now.”

“Don’t tell your assistant,” Bryce says.

“He knows what I know, kid,” Summers says. “That’s how it works.”

“I don’t want people to know,” Bryce says.

Summers sighs. “Yeah,” he says. “And I’m going to tell him, and we’re going to figure out how to make sure that doesn’t happen, okay? You don’t want people to know, you let us figure this out.”

“Please don’t tell him,” Bryce says.

“He’s me,” Summers says. “You can trust him exactly the same.”

 _I don’t trust you_ , Bryce doesn’t say. Not with this. He doesn’t trust anyone with this. He doesn’t trust himself with this.

Jared sounded so determined on the phone, like this was something he needed to do.

“Fine,” Bryce says, resigned. “Just — do whatever you need to do to keep this quiet.”

“That’s the plan,” Summers says, so at least that’s one thing they agree on.


	67. Here are a lot of happy thoughts

-When Harry sleeps in the middle he complains the giants are crushing him. When Harry isn’t in the middle he complains until the giants let him get in the middle. Roman compared him once to a cat that meows to be let outside and then immediately meows to be let inside, and Evan laughed so hard he choked while Harry fumed and then told the giants to let him free, because they both sucked. They did not. Time to be crushed, Harold.

-Vinny and Tony have a secret handshake called holding hands. Anton says that’s not a secret handshake at all, but Thomas disagrees. He thinks it’s even better than the secret handshake him and Fourns had, and his and Fourns’ included finger guns.

-Marc would like it to be known that he loves Dan Riley more every single day, as if we didn’t know that already.

-Bryce would like it to be known he loves Jared Matheson even MORE® every single day (Bryce it’s not a contest and morer isn’t a word.)

-Grace is absolutely beloved by the Caps because every time she’s around she kicks Robbie’s ass at video games and it’s good to see the sorest winner in the world lose. Quincy has offered to adopt her.

-David Chapman is very, very loved, and the people who love him make sure he knows it.

-Jake’s one of the first people in the room after Allie has her first son, and he cries like a fucking baby when he gets to hold his nephew. Allie’s too tired to mock him at the time, but she mocks the hell out of him for it later.

-Nobody’s making fun of Georgie for bursting into tears when he holds his daughter for the first time. Or his son.

-Jules never goes back to Gaspe, but he does help fund an indoor rink there, and one day, he’ll watch a kid who grew up playing in it get drafted, and it’ll hurt, but in a good way.

-Liam and Mike’s mom get along so well it fills Mike with despair. They use it for evil and teaming up on him whenever they’re together. Once literally, when he was subjected to the most unfair game of Risk in the history of the world.

-Adam will fall in love one day, and it’ll be mutual, and one day, not that day, but not that long after, he’ll stop feeling like he doesn’t deserve it.

-Derek finds flowers Andy isn’t allergic to and has them delivered to their house every two weeks. They sit in the kitchen. They’re very pretty.

-Speaking of flowers, Sven and Gerard face some tough competition in their love life when one of Yvette’s tiny students falls madly in crush with her. He gave her a flower. Do they give her flowers? (Gerard immediately buys so many flowers.)

-One day Luke is going to dance with Ben’s daughter at her wedding and he steps on her toes twice but she just laughs, and he adores her. 

-Stephen promised Gabe he could put a ring on it if he won another Cup. The Canucks win another Cup before Gabe retires. Gabe asked Stephen’s parents before he asked Stephen and Anouk threatened to kill him if he was fucking with her, and then kill him if he  _didn’_ t ask. They just did a small civil ceremony and it didn’t change much of anything (they’d been common-law partners for…ever by then), but their parents are off their backs now!


	68. Harry/Roman/Evan, Various North Stars; dad’s trip

Harry has never been less excited to see his dad. He loves his dad a lot, he’s great, and he doesn’t get to see him enough, but — Harry doesn’t want to see his dad.

Unfortunately, considering his dad’s coming in for an officially mandated dad’s trip, Harry does not have much of a choice in the matter.

“Val, I don’t want my dad to come,” Harry whines. His dad’s smart, and his dad’s going to know Harry’s hiding something, and then his dad’s going to find out The Guy Harry Is Kind Of With, Yeah It’s Serious, No He’s Not Ready To Introduce Him Yet is actually not one guy but two, and they happen to be his teammates, and his dad is Not Going To Approve.

Val scowls at him, and Harry remembers that his dad can’t come, and then feels shitty.

“Wanna share my dad?” Harry says.

“Connie already offered his father,” Val says. Of course he did. “But I like your dad, I will take him too.”

“You can have all our dads,” Harry says. “Distract ‘em for a night while we get laid.”

Val puts his hands over his ears, gives Harry a look like a scandalized Victorian maiden. Harry has got to stop letting him watch all those period movies.

Harry is so wrapped in panic about his dad catching on that he almost forgets the other horror of the dad’s trip, which is that Roman and Evan’s dads? Also coming. Obviously.

He’s met Mr. Novak. He’s met Mr. Connelly. There’s a dad’s trip every year, so unless his someone wasn’t on the roster last year, or their dad lives too far away to come, Harry’s met their dad, at least briefly.

This is — very different. Harry doesn’t know if either of them know about him, or if they’re the kind of savvy his own dad is, but not only fending off his dad’s perceptiveness, but also interacting with his boyfriends’ dads as, you know, dad of someone he’s dating, it’s a lot of stress. The night before their dads get in Roman takes him down harder than he’s ever done before, and Harry almost thanks him for it, because  _fuck_  he needed it.

He does mumble a thank you to Evan, though, for cleaning him up and petting his hair. Also for coming on Roman’s face, because that was satisfying in a petty way after Roman made all of Harry’s limbs jelly. Also really hot.

Harry sleeps the sleep of the well fucked, but the next morning he’s all stress again, and unfortunately they don’t have time for Roman or Evan to fuck him out of it. 

His dad gets in a few hours before Evan’s, and Roman’s dad is coming in last because, well, he’s local, so he’s in no hurry, so Harry has lunch alone with his dad before the whole worlds colliding thing, which goes mostly well. Harry doesn’t even stutter when asked about his boyfriend, just answers the questions, Evan and Roman merged into this like, very tall, ripped, sweet and yet salty super boyfriend. Harry still wouldn’t take that over the two of them.

There’s a dinner with all the dads that night, everyone settling in before they have to hit the road, and Harry forgot how short Evan’s dad is. Okay, he’s not actually short, he’s over six feet, but he’s only a couple inches taller than Harry, and it’s a mindfuck. Harry’s met Ev’s mom too, and she’s a pretty average height, so it’s just — how? Was he a test tube baby? Is there a recessive gene? Does he have a secret much taller biological father?

“My dad is my dad,” Evan says, hurt sounding, when they’re briefly dad free at the bar, and maybe Harry shouldn’t have mused aloud.

“They look exactly alike,” Roman says, and Harry will have to give that to him, because Evan is the spitting image of his dad, just younger, and prettier — his mom’s really pretty, so he got that from her, Harry guesses — and obviously a lot taller.

Roman’s dad is almost as big as he is, and he’s got to be in his fifties, but he still looks like he could chew Harry up and spit him out without any effort. He’s got whole the stoic Slavic thing going too, which doesn’t make Harry any less nervous.

“That’s a stereotype,” Roman says.

“You’re a stereotype,” Harry counters.

“Oh yeah,” Roman says, and Harry feels like he might have just stepped into it, “of the stoic Slav?”

There is no good way to answer this. Either he says he is — and he isn’t — or he says he isn’t, and gives Roman the win.

“Well, you’re American,” Harry says, and gets identical raised eyebrows from Roman and Evan for that one.

“It’s not even the right stereotype,” Roman says. “Get your stereotypes straight. That’s Scandinavians, I’m pretty sure.”

Victor looks over from down the bar. His face is very — stoic.

“You’re a stereotype,” Harry mumbles.

“I’m American,” Victor says flatly —  _stoically_  — which proves he was totally eavesdropping, and also gets him a fist bump from Roman.

“Don’t pout,” Roman says to Harry, which he  _isn’t_ , hand landing on the small of his back.

“Don’t,” Harry hisses, squirming away. “What if my dad sees.”

“He’ll think I do it to everyone,” Roman says, smirking as he puts a hand on Evan’s back instead. Evan, the traitor, just smiles and makes no effort to dislodge his hand.

“I’m leaving before you do it to me,” Victor says, slinking away.

Harry should also head back to the table, because his dad’s giving him this look like he’s putting things together, and Harry can’t risk huddling with Roman and Evan some more, tipping him off.

“What’s going on with your teammates?” his dad asks when Harry slides into the seat next to him.

“What do you mean?” Harry squeaks.

“Everyone keeps looking over our way and acting squirrelly, which has me wondering—”

“Okay, fine,” Harry blurts. He is not good under pressure. “I’m kind of dating them, you win.”

“— if you shits are planning a prank or something”, his dad says, then, “What?”

“What?” Harry says. “Um. Never mind. What were you saying about pranks?”

“Them?” his dad asks. “Like,  _all of them_?”

“Oh my god dad, it isn’t an orgy,” Harry says. “Just. Two of them.”

“ _Just_  two of them?” his dad asks. “That sounds like an orgy.”

“Three is a  _threesome_ , dad,” Harry says.

Fitzgerald leans over the table like he’s scented blood. “You telling your dad about your threesomes with Roman and Connie?” he asks. Mr. Fitzgerald doesn’t look all that interested, but then, he raised the jerk, he’s probably used to him by now.

“Roman?” his dad asks. “The guy Sam fought Roman? And isn’t Connelly like twelve?”

“He’s twenty-one,” Harry mutters. “And Roman only fought Sam after Sam  _sucker punched_  him.”

“I can’t believe you didn’t tell your dad about your  _boyfriends_ ,” Fitzgerald says with malicious glee.

“You didn’t tell me you had a boyfriend until you broke up,” his dad says. “And you didn’t even tell me it was Mike until you got back together.”

“Dad,” Fitzgerald whines. “Ixnay on the boyfriend’s name, I told you that.”

Harry may not have been a rookie for years, and The Rookie Detectives may have been stupid as fuck, but Harry is  _absolutely_  delivering this information to Evan. “Mike, huh?” Harry says.

Fitzgerald looks trapped, but unfortunately his dad ruins everything with a “I’m sorry, can we return to the fact you have two boyfriends?”

“I really don’t want to,” Harry says weakly, trying to catch Evan’s eye, and then, when that fails, Evan too deep in conversation with his tiny dad, he sends Roman a desperate look.

Roman nudges Val, says something to him, and Val comes over.

“I want to thank you again for letting me stay last summer,” he says, and his dad smiles at him. His dad loves Val. Everyone loves Val. Harry adores Val right now, and Roman for knowing to send him over. “Do you mind if I sit?”

“No, of course not,” his dad says. “I’m sure we can make room.”

“Thank you,” Harry mouths at Roman, and Roman shrugs, smiles a little.


	69. Harry/Roman(/Evan); bad at saying sorry

Look, Harry knows he can be a jerk. Sometimes he doesn’t mean to, but usually, hell, it’s on purpose. Part of the Authentic Harry Chalmers Experience. Extra salt on everything.

The thing is, though, it’s almost impossible to be a jerk to Evan. Sometimes he is, but it’s accidental, Harry running his mouth without thinking, and he always feels awful and tries to fix it as soon as he can, because Evan doesn’t deserve that, especially since he doesn’t have a mean bone in his body. It’s like being mean to a fucking puppy. Plus, Evan’s kind of, well, sensitive. It’s easy to hurt his feelings, as Harry unfortunately knows well.

Roman, it’s different. He laughs off half the shit Harry says, which is generally infuriating, and gives it back as good as he gets, also infuriating sometimes, but fun too, the back and forth they can get going. Evan used to be wary about it at the start, like he thought they were going to start throwing punches, but it didn’t take long for him to figure out they were more likely to end up making out  than sulking at the end of it, and sometimes he even goads them a little, amused. It works for them. It’s their thing. So Harry maybe forgets sometimes that, you know, play-acting being a jerk with your boyfriend can kind of turn into actually being a jerk to your boyfriend.

He doesn’t even realize it got to Roman until after, and that’s not him figuring it out himself, even, that’s Evan taking him aside the next morning, looking upset, and saying, “You know you hurt Roman’s feelings, right?”, all big sad eyes.

Harry snorts. “Like it’s possible to hurt Roman’s feelings,” he says, but he pays attention after, and Roman’s kind of — off with him. Like, not enough that Harry would have even noticed if Evan hadn’t said anything — Roman is the only person in their relationship with a half decent poker face — but he’s keeping his distance, more than the general distance they always have during team shit, and when Harry starts needling him, trying to get a reaction, he doesn’t oblige, instead mutters something about needing to talk to Findlay and walks away.

 _Walks away_. Harry is…okay, now Harry’s feelings are kind of hurt.

Harry should apologize, it’s just. Hard. Harry’s not good at apologies. They’re hard, and half the time he makes things worse, finds himself getting mad at someone for getting mad at him and then it all blows up when he says sorry because apparently saying sorry shouldn’t sound like ‘fuck you for being mad at me’, according to Annie.

Harry goes to Panera for lunch, picks up the cookies Roman likes. He glares Fitzy away from the seat beside Roman on their way to the arena, slides in beside him.

Roman looks at him warily.

“I got you cookies,” Harry says.

Roman doesn’t look any less wary.

“Triple chocolate?” Harry says. “Those are your favorite, right?”

“What do you want, Harry?” Roman asks, and he sounds tired, which is just — intolerable.

“Evan told me I hurt your feelings,” Harry says, and expects Roman to laugh at him — Harry, not Evan, they don’t laugh at Evan, Team Policy even if they weren’t like, crazy about him, see: kicking a puppy — tell him he’s being conceited as fuck if he thinks he has the ability to hurt Roman at all, but he doesn’t.

“So instead of apologizing like a normal person,” Roman says. “You’re, what, food bribing it better?”

“You like these cookies,” Harry mumbles. “I dunno. I suck at apologizing.”

“That is not new information,” Roman says, which is the kind of thing he’d usually say, but there’s an edge there Harry doesn’t think he’s imagining.

“Eat the cookies,” Harry says.

“Thought you said they weren’t on my diet plan,” Roman says, which Harry said last week, not yesterday, so it’s not even the thing they’re — they’re not arguing, right? Or fighting? Anyway Harry says a lot of shit. “And that they won’t want to re-sign me if I’m wider than I am tall.”

Harry winces. That came out wrong. Like, it was a joke — Roman’s huge, yeah, might even be on the high end of the body fat percentile, but he’s fit as hell and they all know that.

All of that makes it out of his mouth, because of course it does, and Roman would usually preen at Harry reluctantly complimenting him, but he doesn’t this time.

There’s a bullet Harry’s going to have to bite, isn’t there.

“This is weird and I hate it,” Harry says. “Take the cookies.”

Roman sighs.

Bullet, Harold.

They’re surrounded by team, but Harry presses his forehead against Roman’s bicep. Roman doesn’t move, but he’s all tension under it. “I’m sorry,” Harry tells Roman’s arm, because it’s easier than his face. “I suck and I’m sorry, I just — you give as good as you get and I get carried away sometimes. I don’t mean any of that shit. It’s like, I dunno, when Zuza and Beau play fight because Zuza wants attention and Beau’s tired of her biting him.”

“You’re Zuza in this analogy, I’m guessing,” Roman says. “Fitting, considering your size.”

“And I’m just as adorable,” Harry says, and Roman snorts. “Take my cookies please, so I stop feeling like the scum of the earth. I promise I won’t say shit.”

“For about two seconds,” Roman says, but he finally takes the cookies. “You going to stop hiding in my shoulder, Chalmers?” he asks.

“Not quite yet,” Harry says.

“Okay,” Roman says, and Harry frowns as Roman moves his arm, but it’s just to throw an arm around his shoulders, pull him in to a loose hug.

“Sorry,” Harry says once more for good measure.

“S’fine,” Roman says. “Wanna split a cookie?”

“That undermines the purpose of an apology cookie,” Harry complains, but he doesn’t protest when Roman splits one in half and offers him the bigger piece.


	70. Elaine, Bryce/Jared; advisor

Bryce calls her. That isn’t unusual by any means, he calls most days, but she’s at a hair appointment the first time he calls, doesn’t hear it ringing, and by the time she gets out of it she has three missed calls from him.

“Are you okay?” she asks the moment he picks up. She didn’t see anything in the game against the Canucks, but she might have missed something. Or something happened after. He’s been so good for the past two years, especially since he started dating Jared, but she still worries.

“I’m okay,” Bryce says. He doesn’t sound okay.

“Are you hurt?” she asks.

“No,” Bryce says.

“Have you been—” Elaine starts.

“Jared and I had a fight,” Bryce says, and she hates that she’s relieved by that.

“I’m sorry,” she says.

“He won’t answer any of my calls,” Bryce says. “I didn’t even  _do_ —”

“What was the fight about?” Elaine interrupts to ask, because she can tell he’s geared up to go on a rant.

“He hung out with the Flames after Friday’s game,” Bryce says.

“You invited him?” Elaine asks, surprised.

“No,” Bryce says. “Chaz did.”

“Chaz your teammate?” Elaine says. “How does he know Jared?”

“They played together on the Hitmen,” Bryce says, then, sounding annoyed, “You met Jared after one of their games, Chaz was on his  _line_.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t memorise the Hitmen roster,” Elaine says. The only reason she really remembers Chaz is because of his name, hardly common, especially nowadays, a bit because he has a nice smile on TV. She watches all of Bryce’s games, knows the important people, like his linemates, his goalies, the best defencemen, but she watches to watch him, not the Flames. “So Jared met the Flames.”

“Yeah,” Bryce says.

“And I assume something happened,” she says.

“Not even,” Bryce says.

“Well, you had a fight over something, I assume,” Elaine says.

“It’s so stupid,” Bryce says. “Jared’s pissed off just because I was like, pretending to flirt with this chick—”

“Wait,” Elaine says. “Why were you flirting with someone else?”

“Pretending,” Bryce says.

“Why were you pretending to flirt with someone else?” Elaine says.

“Mom,” Bryce says. “You don’t get it. You have to like, pretend, okay? Or they’ll know something’s up.”

“Something being what, you having a boyfriend?” Elaine asks.

“I  _told_  him it didn’t mean anything,” Bryce says, gearing up now. “But he kept saying I was ashamed of him, and then, like, when I told him I obviously wasn’t ashamed of him, he told me it was basically the same if I was ashamed of him or having a boyfriend, which is —”

Elaine’s starting to put a picture together, no thanks to Bryce.

“It is the same,” Elaine says. “Being ashamed of him or of having a boyfriend, if he’s your boyfriend.”

“It’s  _not_ ,” Bryce says. “How the fuck — sorry —”

“It’s fine,” Elaine says.

“How is it the same?” Bryce says. “He knows I love him like crazy, like, I want to be with him basically forever, how can he think I’m ashamed of him?”

“Bear,” Elaine says. “You can say that to me, but who else would you say that to?”

“Him,” Bryce says. “You know I told the Mathesons—”

“I know,” she says. “But look at where he’s coming from — how would you feel if he was flirting with someone else in front of you?”

“It wasn’t even real!” Bryce says.

“But to your teammates, it was more real than your relationship,” she says.

“That’s the point!” Bryce says. “It’s just for them, I don’t see why he cares. He can flirt with girls if he wants to.”

“Why are you even—” Elaine says. “I don’t understand why you’re flirting at all.”

“I told you,” Bryce says.

“Yes, but,” Elaine says. “I assume you have teammates who don’t flirt at bars, and I doubt you assume they’re gay.”

“Mom, you’re not listening,” Bryce says.

“I am,” she says. “I just don’t understand.”

“They expect me to, you know?” Bryce says. “That’s what they expect, so I can’t just stop, which Jared like, obviously doesn’t get, but —”

“Why can’t you?” Elaine asks. Honestly, Jared isn’t the only one upset by this — she doesn’t like this, Bryce pretending to show interest he doesn’t feel just because he thinks his teammates expect it. “Maybe you should save flirting for your boyfriend.”

“I don’t want to come out,” Bryce says.

“I know,” Elaine says. “I know, Pooh, I’m not saying you should.”

“So what are you saying?” Bryce says. “Because it sounds like you’re taking his side.”

“I’m not taking any sides,” Elaine says.

“You’re supposed to take  _mine_ ,” Bryce snaps.

“I’m not taking any sides,” Elaine repeats firmly. “Because you love him, and you want to be with him, so you want to fix things more than you want to be right.”

Bryce is quiet.

“Right?” Elaine says.

“Yeah,” he mutters, as sulky sounding as he could get when he was a teenager. “But he’s being so fucking — sorry —”

“It’s fine,” Elaine says. “I know you’re upset.”

“He’s being so unfair about this,” Bryce says. “Acting like I’m a monster or something just because I’m not as cool being out as he is, all ‘it’s not fair to me, and it’s not fair to the girls, and you’re a fucking coward, why can’t you be more like me, I had no problems coming out’.”

“Has he asked you to come out?” Elaine asks. “Or has he asked you to not to flirt with other people?”

“You’re taking his side again!” Bryce says.

“I’m just trying to understand what the argument’s about,” Elaine says.

“Maybe it’s not flirting now, but like, next time he’s going to ask for like, telling the team, or the media, or—”

“Bryce,” Elaine says.

“It just seems so  _easy_ for him,” Bryce says. “And he doesn’t care that it’s not easy for people who aren’t him.”

“I’m sure it wasn’t easy for him,” Elaine says. “He’s been out for years, right? Since before you met him. Things get easier with time.”

“This isn’t going to—” Bryce says, doesn’t finish.

“You don’t know that,” Elaine says. “Think about how worried you were about coming out to me. That worked out okay.”

“I’m not coming out,” Bryce snaps. “So if you’re just gonna be all Jared about this—”

“I’m not asking you to,” Elaine says. “And I don’t know Jared as well as you do, but I don’t think he’s asking you to either.”

“It doesn’t hurt anyone,” Bryce says.

“Except Jared,” Elaine says. “And Bear, really? How do you feel about it after? Do you enjoy it?”

“Obviously not,” Bryce snaps.

“Then why do you do it?”

“I don’t want—” Bryce says, voice breaking. “Mom, I don’t—”

“I know,” Elaine says. “But sweetheart, you want to marry that boy, what do you think’s going to happen? You think no one’s ever going to find out? That’s a risk you’re taking being with him, whether you want to or not, and if you’re not ready for the risks that come with having a boyfriend, maybe you’re not ready for one.”

Bryce is quiet so long she wonders if they got disconnected. “Bear, you there?”

“Yeah,” Bryce says, no more than a whisper, then, “What’s that even supposed to mean?”

“Bryce,” Elaine says.

“No, seriously,” Bryce says. “Like, what the f— what is that —”

Elaine waits.

“I’m not letting go of him, so if you think—”

“Letting can go both ways,” Elaine says gently.

“Fuck,” Bryce says. He doesn’t apologise for that one, but she lets it slide. He sounds defeated, and Elaine hates to hear him that way. “I have to go down to the lobby, they’re taking us to the Pepsi Center in ten.”

“Okay,” Elaine says. “I love you.”

“You too,” Bryce says.

“Play well tonight,” Elaine says.

Bryce laughs without humour. “Sure,” he says, and when he hangs up Elaine looks down at her phone, worried she just made things worse.


	71. Andy/Derek, Dan; Casino night

Andy hates casino night. Not just because he’s bad at everything, though he is, or that he looks like a toothpick in a tux, though he does — for some reason the second he puts on a bowtie instead of a regular tie he looks way taller and way skinnier — but because Derek loves casino night, and every time they do it Andy’s concerned Derek’s going to remember how much he loves gambling, run to Vegas, and never come back. Andy’s just lucky Las Vegas doesn’t have a hockey team.

“Bowie, blow on my dice,” Derek says.

“What?” Andy asks. “Why?”

“It’s good luck when someone pretty blows on them,” Derek says, with possibly the sleaziest wink Andy has ever seen.

Andy glances over at the other people at the table, mostly Sens fans. They look amused but not like they think anything of it, like they expect this, like it’s just Derek joking around. Derek does have that reputation among fans, Andy knows.

“No,” Andy says. “Blow on your own dice.”

“Aw, you think I’m pretty,” Derek says, and that gets a laugh from the table, except Andy, who’s trying to figure out whether Derek made up the dice thing to be funny or if he’s being ridiculously superstitious here too, and Dan, who’s on his phone, probably with the Diver. “It doesn’t work if it’s your own dice though. Riley, blow on my dice.”

Dan rolls his eyes but pockets his phone before leaning over and blowing on the dice in Derek’s hand.

“Hey,” Andy says, frowning. “You can’t just get anyone to blow on your dice. And Dan’s a married man.”

The woman sitting next to him snickers.

“You can blow on them next time, Andy,” Derek says.

He rolls a six and a one, which is apparently great. Andy isn’t really good at craps, there’s too much to remember. He wanted to go to the blackjack table, but Sven and Gerard are already there, and five Sens at one table is probably too many. They’re supposed to spread out, mingle, make the people who paid for this feel like they got their money’s worth.

“Nevermind,” Derek says. “Dan, blow on my dice again.”

“ _Hey_ ,” Andy says.

“Sorry Bowie, he’s good luck,” Derek says.

Andy scowls at him, because ‘and I’m your  _boyfriend_ ’ isn’t something he can say at a table full of Sens fans.

Derek holds his dice out for Dan again, and Dan obligingly gives them a blow. And that’s a stupid word. Blow. It’s all — whatever.

“I’m telling the Diver,” Andy mutters at Dan.

“And once again he’ll laugh his ass off,” Dan says, then, under his breath, “What’re you even going to say? ‘Hey Lapointe, your husband blew air at my bf-slash-bff’s hands, you mad?’.”

Andy elbows him, and Dan just laughs, pulls out his phone again under the table, probably telling the Diver exactly what’s going on.

Derek wins again, whatever that means, which has him holding the dice out for Dan again.

“I have a —” Dan says, then, holding his phone up, “Marc.”

Andy sees two guys at the table roll his eyes, and he’s not sure whether it’s because Marc’s a Hab or not. He hopes it’s because he’s a Hab. He really hopes it’s because he’s a Hab.

Dan walks away from the table, phone already at his ear, the way it so often is, and Derek slides the dice under Andy’s nose. “Blow?” he says.

“No,” Andy says.

“Bowie,” Derek says.

“Wait for Dan if you want good luck,” Andy says, crossing his arms.

“Andy,” Derek whines, but Andy stands firm.

Derek quickly loses every single chip he won, and he blames it on Andy refusing to blow on his dice, but Andy thinks he should blame it on being crappy at betting, and says so.

“I miss anything?” Dan asks when he comes back to the table.

“Your lineys always bicker like this?” the woman sitting beside Andy asks.

“Pretty much,” Dan says, and Andy goes from scowling at Derek to scowling at Dan.


	72. David/Jake; wants and needs (part a billion – okay, 4)

There’s something so…undignified about getting undressed when David knows what’s coming. Not the stripping down itself, that’s something David’s more than used to, in general and in front of Jake, but usually it’s not with — well, it is with intent, but David feels more self-conscious than usual, exposed, and when Jake opens the bedside table to get lube David looks away, wishing it’d just — obviously it’s necessary, he just hates how premeditated it all has to be.

It’s never been a thought of his when he’s reaching for it, or when Jake’s grabbing it to prep himself, but — it’s different. It shouldn’t be, but it is.

Jake kisses him, and that’s familiar, that’s something David knows how to do, and he doesn’t realise it might be as a distraction until it isn’t, the unmistakable sound of the cap off the lube bottle stilling him.

“We don’t have to—” Jake says, pulling back.

“I trust you,” David says, because it worked last time, and it seems to again.

That sounds like he’s — it sounds manipulative, but he means it, and if Jake keeps asking, David knows he’s going to back down, that they’ll be right back where they started. And maybe that wouldn’t be the worst thing, but — David wants to  _know_.

“Okay, so I’m warming this up,” Jake says, like David doesn’t know how lube works, like David hasn’t done that himself. “And if you want me to stop, just let me know, and I will, okay?”

Another thing David knows, another thing Jake doesn’t have to tell him.

“Okay?” Jake asks.

“Yeah,” David says. “I know.”

“Okay,” Jake says, then kisses his nose, and when David wrinkles said nose, scowls at him, David feels slick fingers tracing over his perineum, the slightly firmer press of Jake’s middle finger, not enough to — not enough to push inside, but enough that the feeling is unmistakable.

David thinks that was meant to be a distraction too, and he shouldn’t be annoyed that Jake clearly knows all the ways to do it, but he’s not — Jake doesn’t have to placate him, he’s a grown man.

“Just do it, okay?” David asks.

Jake kisses his cheekbone, his cheek, and when David’s about to ask if he didn’t hear him, catches David’s mouth as his finger presses in slowly. It feels — it doesn’t feel so different from the way it has when he’s tried it on himself, except Jake’s fingers are thicker than David’s, which is something he knew, but didn’t really think about, not in the context of this, Jake’s finger immediately more of a stretch than his, everything more from the start, David breathing out, shaky, against Jake’s mouth, kiss forgotten, as Jake pushes in slow, too slow maybe, inexorable.

“This okay?” Jake pulls away to ask, and David nods, tight. “Can you say—”

“It’s okay,” David says. “Keep going.”

“It feels weird at the start sometimes,” Jake says, and it does. “Gets better, though,” he adds, and that—

That ends up being true too, though not right away, not until Jake’s pressing in with two, the stretch more than David’s felt before, and when Jake finds his prostate—

David tries to bite back a noise, almost manages.

“There?” Jake asks, but he doesn’t wait for a response, just does it again, and it’s — David’s read up on it, he knows prostate stimulation doesn’t feel the same as — he just —

Jake takes a long time with one, longer than David ever has, even the first time — especially the first time — which makes him feel guilty. Guilty, and a little anxious, but he can’t make himself ask for two.

“Okay for another?” Jake asks, finally, and David nods, relieved. The second’s more of — it’s a lot, and David’s thankful, in hindsight, that Jake took his time, because he feels every muscle in his body go tense when Jake pushes back in with two fingers. Jake stops, won’t start again until David forces himself to relax, every muscle feeling like an individual effort, but it’s not — it’s not painful, not once he stops tensing — and even then it was discomfort, not pain — but it’s — it’s a lot.

“How does it feel,” Jake says, the words murmured against the hinge of David’s jaw, so he feels them more than he hears them. Then, before David can formulate a response, a harder question: “How do you feel?”

He feels — there are a lot of words for how he feels, none of them he’s comfortable thinking, really. None he feels comfortable saying.

“Good,” he manages finally, because it’s one that Jake probably wants to hear, and it’s not like it isn’t true. It does feel good, but it’s also —  

He can imagine what he looks like right now, wishes he couldn’t, a confirmation of everything that’s been thrown at him: David flat on his back, letting someone — letting them touch him like this, letting them inside.

The way Jake’s looking at him, though —

He looks at David like he sees him, and it’s all David can do not to tell Jake to stop looking at him like that, to stop looking at him at  _all_. It’s not a bad look, it’s just — it’s a lot, almost physical, the way Jake’s eyes rest on him, flicking up to look at David’s face, down to where he’s —

David doesn’t know which look feels heavier, Jake’s eyes on his face or his eyes on where his fingers are pushing into David, stretching,  _prepping_ , and it’s supposed to be the endgame tonight, David supposes, but not in the future, his fingers just getting David ready so he can press in with his  _cock_ , and —

David feels hot all over, thinks about the tight clutch of Jake’s body around his own fingers, his own dick, and that it’s probably no different for Jake, maybe even tighter, because David’s barely done this, not even to himself, and he knows he’s still holding himself too tense, can’t make himself fully relax, even though it’s Jake, and he trusts Jake, he does, he knows Jake is being careful, and knows Jake wants this, wants him like this, but —

“Hey,” Jake says, kissing David’s jaw again. “Head with me, okay?”

“Sorry,” David mumbles.

“You want three, or you want to keep going with two?” Jake asks. “Or you want to stop?”

He makes it sound like all three are equal, all three are okay, even though David knows there must be one he prefers, can feel Jake’s dick hard against his hip. He must want inside. David could — David could tell that, that it was okay, or—

“Do you want to—” David says.

“Want to what?” Jake asks.

“Fuck me,” David says.

“Not tonight,” Jake says, and the way his hips stutter forward a bit slightly alleviates the feeling of rejection, as does his, “You know I do, David, but not until you’re ready.”

“I’m ready,” David says.

“Two, or three, or stop?” Jake asks, and he’s so  _stubborn_ , it’s so—

David can feel Jake start to pull his fingers out.

“Three,” he blurts.

“Okay,” Jake says. “Okay. I’ll get you there, babe.”

Where, David doesn’t know — whether Jake means coming, which isn’t going to happen without a hand around him, or making him more comfortable, which — he doesn’t know, it’s good, he wasn’t lying, but it’s not comfortable, that’s not something he’d describe it as, that’s not something he’d describe  _himself_ as. Get David ready for him, but David offered, and he turned him down, so David doesn’t know —

Three fingers feels like a  _lot_.

Three feels completely overwhelming, and David almost asks him to stop, take them out, but he must adjust, and then it still feels like a lot, but it’s — Jake keeps finding his prostate, which sends sensation sparking through him, and that’s just an addition to the wide stretch of his fingers, the uneven pant of Jake’s breath against his skin, how it — it feels  _wide_. He feels wide open, except he isn’t, because Jake’s pressing in, keeping him — keeping him full.

Jake’s free hand wraps around him, slick with lube, grip as tight as David likes it, as tight as he needs it, and David resists the urge to tell him not to, because that’s stupid. Jake wants him to come, and David wants to come, it’s just — it’d be stupid to tell Jake to stop, so he doesn’t, and the last remnants of control, the quiet he’s held around himself, they disappear with Jake’s hand, hard strokes, a counterpoint of how gentle his fingers are pressing in.

“You’re so fucking beautiful, you have no fucking idea,” Jake mumbles against David’s skin, and David can’t bite back sound as he comes, Jake’s fingers almost painful for the first time as David tightens hard around them.

He has to bite back another sound as Jake pulls them out slowly, his nerves still singing, chest still heaving when Jake wipes it off with Kleenex. It isn’t enough, but David can take a shower in a minute, after Jake gets off.

“That was okay?” Jake asks with a steadiness David envies.

It was — David liked it. David liked it a lot, and he hates that it bothers him so much.

“That was okay,” David confirms.

“Good,” Jake says.

“Did you want to—” David asks, not sure how to finish. Jake’s usually the one who asks if he can do something, and a yes or a no are so much easier to get out than a question.

“Can I jerk off on you?” Jake asks, and David feels slightly relieved that it’s something they’ve done before, not Jake asking if he can look at his handiwork, or maybe press the tip of his cock against where David’s still wet and open from his fingers, come _in_  him, or even nudge the head a little bit inside—

David swallows hard, not sure what the twist in his stomach is, not sure if he wants to.

“Go for it,” he says, voice raw even to his own ears, and his heart’s still beating way too fast when Jake comes in hot streaks against his belly, adds to the hastily cleaned mess.


	73. Bryce/Jared, Chaz; real talk

Chaz sticks close to Bryce after the game, and Bryce — doesn’t know how to feel about it. Like, maybe he’s doing it to be nice, or maybe Jared told him to, but —

He doesn’t know how he feels about it. He promised Jared he wouldn’t fake flirt with chicks anymore, and even if he hadn’t Chaz would know it’s fake, and Bryce is worried it’ll seem fake to everyone once one person knows, so even though they go to a club it’s really easy to pretend to hook up in, Bryce is stuck sitting on a couch in the VIP section, sipping a beer, probably looking like a loser. Not that the other guys still there are losers or anything, but. Bryce feels like one.

“Hey, you want to get out of here, grab at drink at my place?” Chaz asks when Bryce is finishing off his beer.

“Um,” Bryce says.

“It’s like a five minute walk, not even,” Chaz says. “We can talk about the Hitmen game last night. You watched it, right?”

That’s pretty good code for Jared, Bryce thinks. Like, him and Chaz know what he’s talking about, but no one else would get it. Bryce wishes he was better at those sort of codes, but he always messes them up.

Bryce checks if anyone’s looking, seems interested or whatever, like they caught it was a code, maybe think — well, Bryce doesn’t touch the harder shit, but there are guys on the team who do, and he knows that.  That’s a code he’s cracked.

No one’s really looking, most of them already on the dance floor, and Bryce really doesn’t want to dance tonight.

“Yeah, sure,” Bryce says. “Too loud to talk here, right?”

“Yeah,” Chaz says.

It’s awkward, the walk, like Bryce hasn’t felt awkward around Chaz since, well, really early on, after Jared told Bryce to look out for him, because Bryce knew Chaz knew Jared was — Chaz knew that about Jared, and that he had a boyfriend, and he was kind of afraid Chaz would take one look at him and sudden realise he was with Jared or whatever. It sounds stupid now, especially because Chaz didn’t even believe Jared when he told him until Bryce texted him and told him to stop upsetting Jared.

But now he  _knows_  Chaz knows, that he looks at Bryce and sees exactly what he is. A fucking cocksucker, who —

“Hey,” Chaz says, and Bryce walks a few steps before he realises Chaz has stopped. “Jared told me to like, let you bring it up first?”

But Chaz isn’t, Bryce guesses.

“You know I don’t give a shit, right?” Chaz says. “Or like, I give a shit in that like — you know it doesn’t make me think like, any different of you.”

“Sure,” Bryce says. “Okay. You said it was close, right?”

“Yeah,” Chaz says, and finally starts walking again.

Chaz’s place actually looks like someone lives in it, which is weird. Like. Not weird that it looks like that, but — he’s a rookie. And he’s only been here a few months. So it’s weird. Bryce’s place only really started feeling like his after Jared moved in, and at that point it wasn’t his, it was theirs.

“Subletting it,” Chaz says, which explains it. “Don’t want to throw money away if I’m sent down, so.”

“You won’t be sent down,” Bryce says.

“You don’t know that,” Chaz says.

“If they send you down now, they burn a year off your ELC,” Bryce says. “And like, yeah, they would have burned it anyway with the A, but they started you here, and they’re going to wanna sell the rookie story. Plus, you’re, you know. Cheaper than most guys.”

They sent Bryce back to Spokane with one game left before his ELC would have kicked in, didn’t want to blow that story on Bryce at eighteen. It was the right choice in the end. He was better a year later, and no one considered sending him down for a second.

“That’s true,” Chaz says. “Thanks.”

“You’re playing well too,” Bryce says, because he doesn’t want Chaz to think he just thinks—

“Seriously, the ELC stuff was way more comforting,” Chaz says. “Plus the salary thing. I don’t understand what they do sometimes, but I know it’s always business, so. Thanks. You want a beer? I’ve got Molson, and, uh, some craft beer my girlfriend likes? It’s kind of bitter, though.”

“Molson’s fine,” Bryce says, and Chaz comes back with two Canadians. “You didn’t ask me here to talk about the Hitmen, huh?”

“I mean, if you want to, for sure,” Chaz says. “I’m still tracking the season, more than half of those dudes were my guys, you know?”

“Yeah,” Bryce says, though he hasn’t even looked up the Chiefs since he left.

“But I figured you wouldn’t want to talk about Jared around people, so,” Chaz says.

“Are we talking about Jared?” Bryce asks. He wonders if Chaz is going to tell him if he hurts Jared he’s a dead man. Like Bryce doesn’t know that. If Jared didn’t do it himself, Bryce probably would. And it’s ‘probably’ only because Mr. Matheson might do it first.

“Well,” Chaz says. “Not really? Like. Kind of. But.”

Bryce is so confused.

“Look,” Chaz says. “I support you. And Jared. And your relationship.”

“But,” Bryce says, stomach sinking.

“No but!” Chaz says, then, “But.”

Bryce’s stomach sinks lower.

“But you’ve been kind of acting like a douche during team shit,” Chaz says. “Which like, isn’t technically related to your relationship but kind of is? Like, the way you’re trying to hide that relationship?”

“Excuse me?” Bryce says.

“Like, I feel like for sure Jared’s said this,” Chaz says. “Because Jared’s kinda — well, you know.”

“Are you insulting Jared?” Bryce snaps.

“No?” Chaz says. “And uh, also, shit no, if that’s how you’re going to react.”

Bryce unclenches his fists.

“He can just be kinda mean,” Chaz says, and Bryce can’t argue that, even though can be pissed at Chaz for saying it, and is. “And like, he gives it to you straight. Um. I didn’t mean — he’s honest, y’know? So like, he’s for sure called you out for that flirting shit.”

“Jesus, this again?” Bryce says. “Did he ask you to say this?”

“Nope,” Chaz says. “This is me, saying knock it the fuck off with the whole talking about how much you want to bang women all the time, and like, telling everyone about your sex life — or, I guess…making up shit about your sex life? Because I’m pretty sure Jared doesn’t have giant tits like the girl you apparently fucked a few weeks ago? Like, I shared a locker room with him for two years, so I probably would have noticed.”

“Hey,” Bryce snaps, trying not to be pissed that Chaz was even  _looking,_ because everyone looks. Well, like. Bryce doesn’t look. But there’ve been enough jokes about guys’ dick sizes that other guys must at least be glancing.

“Isn’t it like, exhausting?” Chaz asks. “Pretending to be into something you’re not?”

Bryce shrugs.

“And like, no offence, but you overdo it,” Chaz says. “Like, seriously, you never shut up about ‘chicks’,” he says that weird, “and honestly, no one wants to hear about the sex you had, even if it is, like, fake.”

“It’s what you  _do,_ ” Bryce says.

“Uh,” Chaz says. “I don’t.”

“Okay, but you have a girlfriend,” Bryce says.

“And I wouldn’t even if I did,” Chaz says. “And neither do the other guys.”

“You haven’t been listening, apparently,” Bryce says.

“Dude, does literally anyone else on the team say the shit you say?” Chaz says. “Like at the level you say it? Because I’ve only been here for a couple months, but I haven’t heard it. Like, yeah, some of the guys brag about their sexploits or whatever, and honestly, they’re probably as full as shit as you are about some of it, but you do it  _constantly_. And like, sorry if I’m the first one to tell you this, but the guys kind of find the fuckboy shit obnoxious.”

Bryce swallows once, again. “I told Jared I wouldn’t flirt anymore, so. Or like. Pretend to.”

“Probably a good idea,” Chaz says. “Can you maybe hold off on the lying about it later too? Not even asking for Jared, asking for locker room harmony.”

Bryce rubs his thumb over the condensation on his bottle, picks it up. “I dunno, I guess,” he mumbles.

“I didn’t mean to make you feel shitty,” Chaz says. “Shit. Sorry. I just — I’d want to know, you know? Like, if I was bugging people without realising.”

It seems like everything Bryce does bugs the Flames. And they like Chaz, so. It’s probably good advice. Bryce just doesn’t know how to be someone they like, he guesses. That’s not new info.

“Shit,” Chaz says again. “I’m sorry.”

“No, it’s fine,” Bryce says, manages a smile. “Real talk, right?”

“Real talk,” Chaz says.

“Thanks,” Bryce says, because no one — no one ever tells him until it’s too late, or they’re yelling at him, or — Chaz has been nice about all the ways Bryce fucks it up, nicer than anyone else has been.

Chaz is quiet for a minute, one Bryce spends draining his beer too fast, then says, “Okay, do you actually want to talk about the Hitmen, though? Because Jared has been fucking awesome.”

“I know, right?” Bryce says. “Like, I was kind of worried, because the line isn’t as good as it was last year, like, you two combined for a lot of goals—”

Chaz knocks his beer against Bryce’s with a cheerful, “Thank you. Fuck knows I got better playing with him, he’s a killer playmaker.”

“Finishing them too now,” Bryce says. “Feel like the Oilers are probably paying attention, which—”

“Mixed feelings?” Chaz says.

“Kinda,” Bryce says. “But I want him to play where he deserves to, you know?”

“Yeah,” Chaz says. “You want another? Jared told me to get you home at a reasonable time, but.”

Of course he did.

“Yeah, one more,” Bryce says. “What do you think of that new goalie?”

“Too early to tell,” Chaz says as he goes to the kitchen. “You’ve probably watched more than me, though, so let it fly.”

Chaz hands Bryce a beer when he comes out, and nods a lot as Bryce lays out his concerns. He doesn’t want a bad goalie tanking Jared’s season, especially because he knows how important this season is for him. Then he ends up on Jared, even though he doesn’t mean to, because, well. That’s who he’s watching when he watches the Hitmen. Everyone else too, kinda, but if Jared’s on the ice, Bryce is watching him. Sometimes even when he isn’t, if the bench is in view.

“Dude, you sound like you should be coaching them,” Chaz says.

Bryce remembers how awful that stupid camp was. Well, like, the coaching part, not the — well, maybe the Jared part at first, but it obviously worked out okay. “Nah,” he says. “I just pay attention.”

“Paying attention’s different than picking up on a freaking tiny aspect of a position you don’t even play,” Chaz says, and Bryce shrugs. “Like, shit, you’ve noticed things about Jared’s game  _I_  haven’t.”

“He’s my boyfriend,” Bryce says, then realises it’s the first time he’s really said it to, like. Not Summers, or his mom or Jared’s parents, like, adults, but to someone — Chaz is an adult, but he’s younger than Bryce, and it’s weird.

Chaz doesn’t seem to notice. “He was my  _liney_ , dude,” Chaz says. “I’m feeling oblivious as hell right now.”

“Sorry?” Bryce says.

“Nah, it’s really cool to listen to,” Chaz says. “Tell me about the Flames? Dish me the dirt. Like, who’s the most likely to turn shit over?”

Bryce hesitates a moment, then answers that, and everything else he follows up with.


	74. Matty/Crane AU; with practice

It’s not that Devon has a hard time picking up, because when he wants to, he generally succeeds — there haven’t really been stretches where he wants to be having sex but he isn’t. But there’s still something different about a one night stand versus something regular, and that’s something he hasn’t had in awhile. 

The first is a one size fits all, mostly — you do what you’re used to, what feels good, what has made other people feel good in the past, and honestly, that’s good enough. Devon’s had some amazing one night stands, and he’s had some good ones, and he’s had a lot of mediocre ones. This isn’t mediocre. Might have started that way, but you fumble enough, eventually you start getting a good grip on things.

This metaphor’s gotten away from him.

What Devon’s really saying, or trying to dodge saying, actually, is that the sex is pretty good. It wasn’t, that first night, but that first night you had two drunk guys, one who hadn’t jerked a guy off since Juniors, the other who — Devon is pretty sure Matty had never jerked a dick other than his own, but he’s afraid to ask, doesn’t want to know the answer.

But when it kept happening — and he still can’t believe he let it keep happening, can’t believe he was so stupid, so shortsighted, that he thought hurting Matty more later was a better idea than hurting him at the time — well. They get pretty good at it, Devon thinks. Matty seems to like it, at least, so. There’s that.

Except it’s hard to pretend he’s doing it just for Matty when he finds himself watching him, seeing if he signals, stomach tight at dinner waiting to see if Matty invites himself to his room later, knowing what that means. Though maybe waiting isn’t the word. It isn’t the only word, at least. Wanting Matty to invite himself over, knowing what that means.

He doesn’t know what he’s doing here. He doesn’t know what they’re doing here. He just knows it’s stupid, and it’s going to blow up in his face, and the sooner he ends things, the better, for his mental state, and Matty’s, and for their friendship, though he doesn’t even know if that’s salvageable at this point. He hopes so. Matty doesn’t hold grudges, so it might be, but Devon’s increasingly worried that even if Matty got over things, pushed past the awkwardness, Devon might not be able to himself.

Matty’s knee nudges his under the table, and Devon looks over at him, wondering if that was a way to get his attention, but Matty just keeps trying to draw Bardi into the conversation, failing at it, leg pressed against Devon’s. It’s not even — this isn’t new. The whole Class of Canadiana plus Masshole lacks personal space with one another, and it’s something Devon got used to in their rookie year. If it was Wheels or Bardi sitting beside him instead of Devon, chances are just as high he’d be doing it, but even so, Devon’s having a hard time not paying too much attention to it, a hard time focusing on his food.

He pulls his leg away. Matty doesn’t seem to notice, and it doesn’t help, not even a little.


	75. Raf, David/Jake; father-son chat

It’s funny, but Raf knows Jake for literal years before he’d really say he actually knows him. Of the Panthers, Raf knows Kiro a lot better — honestly, Raf knows Joe Forster and Armand Parent better than he knows Jake. Part of that’s because whenever the Caps are in Florida, or vice versa, if they’re all hanging out together Jake and David pretty much only have eyes for each other — Raf suspects the amount of guys who come out is meant as cover — or they’re noticeably absent. Sometimes Kiro (and Emily, if they’re in Sunrise) is missing those times too, sometimes not. Robbie always cracks sex jokes about it.

It’s not that he hasn’t talked to Jake, though. They’ve never really had a real conversation, but Raf’s picked up enough: he’s a lot nicer off the ice than he is on it, which is true of a lot of guys, but the discrepancy is bigger with him, because he seems like a genuinely nice dude, both from the way he acts and from the way others — and not just David — talk about him. He’s got a nephew? David showed him pictures. He’s, uh, a big guy? Raf probably didn’t actually have to meet him to know that, and he knows that best because of that whole off ice-on ice discrepancy, and Raf couldn’t get his breath back for a good minute after one of his hits. He’s lucky though: After he concussed Elliott Robbie was a simmering ball of rage, and Georgie legit fought him. Getting a little winded isn’t so bad in the grand scheme of things.

Except tonight it’s David and Kiro that are missing, so Raf’s a little surprised to see Jake arrive a couple minutes after they do, more surprised when he skips the table with the Panthers and Georgie and beelines straight to where Raf and Robbie are sitting, waiting for the rest of the usual Caps to straggle in.

“Buy you a beer?” Jake asks.

“I’m not twenty-one yet,” Raf says.

“ _Sanchez_ ,” Robbie complains.

“I’m not!” Raf says.

“What’s the drinking age in Alberta?” Jake asks.

“Uh,” Raf says. “Eighteen.”

“Yeah, I’m buying you a beer,” Jake says. “Unless you want something else?”

“Whatever you’re having’s fine,” Raf says.

“I’ll let you have your father-son chat alone,” Robbie says, smirking before he goes to sit with the Panthers.

Jake comes back with two beers, slides one over to Raf.

“I’m surprised you’re here,” Raf says.

“David’s like, loving up Volkie’s cats right now,” Jake says. “And Volkie and Em, probably. I’m meeting him after.”

“Cool,” Raf says.

“We haven’t really had like, a chance to talk,” Jake says.

“No,” Raf says, feeling kind of awkward. He’s not sure why — he doesn’t know Jake well, maybe, but he’s heard a lot about him secondhand, through David and Robbie and even Georgie, a bit, and consensus is he’s a nice guy. Raf knows he’s a nice guy. He doesn’t know why it feels weird — probably Robbie’s fault, planting the idea that, well. Obviously father-son’s stupid, but David’s been a really important mentor to him since he came to the Caps, and Jake’s important to David. He doesn’t want to make a bad impression.

“And we should!” Jake says. “Since you’re David’s like — prodigy.”

“Protégé?” Raf asks.

“Pretty sure the word Volkie used was prodigy,” Jake says, and Raf flushes, looks down at the table. He’s not. He’s definitely not, not like David was, still is. Raf works his ass off. Not that David doesn’t, he works harder than anyone Raf’s ever met, but everything seems to click with him right away, and then just gets even better, more polished, because he works so hard on it. There’s an instinctive grasp of the game he has that Raf’s pretty sure he doesn’t, that Raf’s pretty sure most of the guys, even at this level, don’t.

“He probably doesn’t say this, like, ever?” Jake says. “And he’ll be really mad at me for saying this, but.”

Raf looks up.

“You know he’s crazy proud of you, right?” Jake asks, and Raf looks straight down at his beer again, face burning.


	76. Hank/Jordan; frisson

Hank doesn’t really know what he expected after the excruciating awkwardness that was dinner, but it wasn’t — it wasn’t this.

He’s expecting Jordan to make his excuses about team curfew, lie and say it was nice to see him, and for them to never talk about this again — never talk again — but once they’re outside, the wind biting its way through Hank, something about the atmosphere shifts, or maybe just makes its way to the surface, Hank very aware of distance between them, the way Jordan lets off the only heat in the vicinity.

They make a few comments about the weather — cold, cold enough it’s ridiculous to linger outside — and where the Wings are staying — not far — the kind of things they could have talked about during dinner, the kind of things that feel like postponing the point they part ways, probably for good.

They hit a lull, the silence stretching, and Hank figures this is that point, that moment he can turn around and look at, years down the line, and say that’s where a door closed. Or maybe it was earlier, when he asked if it was guilt that had Jordan inviting him out. It was probably that point, and now they’re just — lingering.

“I’ve got my own room,” Jordan says.

Hank’s genuinely struck silent for a moment.

“I’ve got an apartment,” Hank counters, just around when the silence has stretched too long, stretched into a rejection, because own room or not, Hank is not going to a hotel populated by Red Wings, some of whom may recognise him.

“You win,” Jordan says easily. “Can I see it?”

“I think that was implied,” Hank says.

“Cool,” Jordan says, smiles, that slightly lopsided one that’s always thrown Hank for a loop when it’s been directed his way. Tonight doesn’t seem to be the exception, there.

There’s silence in the ride back, but it doesn’t feel awkward this time. Thick, maybe, but not in a bad way. More like anticipation, and Hank isn’t usually comfortable with silence, isn’t sure he is this time, but he doesn’t want to ruin it. He lets things stand.

“Nice place,” Jordan says after he follows him in the door, the first thing either of them have said since they got in the car. It’s nice of him to say, and also untrue — it’s pretty sparse, right now, maybe even spartan. Hank hasn’t really been in the right headspace for making it look like something permanent, when everything in his life is in uncomfortable flux, painful rehab and sudden unemployment not something he’d really included in his five year plan, though he should have at least considered it as a worst-case scenario. He didn’t though, so right now, he’s feeling very much in limbo, and that applies not only to his life, but to this moment, because an awkward silence falls, one unpleasantly like dinner, where they’re just standing there staring at one another.

Hank wonders if he should offer him a drink, or a tour, or an apology. Hank wonders what he was thinking, inviting Jordan over — there’s attraction here, there’s obviously attraction here, mutual, it’s not like Jordan’s invitation was one that’s easy to misinterpret. It’s attraction that’s been around for awhile, Hank’s pretty sure — positive in his case, obviously, but he’s pretty sure that charge between them, standing outside the restaurant, that’s a charge that’s been there for years, but that doesn’t necessarily make it a good idea. Hank’s retired, but barely, hasn’t even filed all his papers with the NHLOA yet, still getting disability payments from them, and just because this isn’t an uncrossable line anymore doesn’t mean it’s one they  _should_ cross. They’re in a distinctly grey area.

“Can I kiss you?” Jordan asks, and the “Yes,” is out of Hank’s mouth with mortifying speed, but Hank doesn’t have much time to dwell on it, because Jordan’s mouth is on his, and that’s all he can focus on. It starts chaste, testing, but it doesn’t stay that way, and Hank knows that frisson’s been there for years, that it was mutual, was fairly confident about that, but it’s the first time he’s really sure of it, Jordan’s mouth hot against his, fingers creeping under the loose tuck of his shirt.

Hank’s apartment isn’t a big one, so it’s not a long trip to the bedroom, and Hank should maybe slow this down, ask to talk about this, but talking has been more trouble than anything else with them in the past — hell, it was trouble  _today_  — and more importantly, he doesn’t want to.

Jordan gives him a sympathetic grimace when Hank’s stupid dress pants get caught over his knee brace, but doesn’t offer to help, which Hank appreciates, because all that’d do would slow things down, and Hank doesn’t want — he doesn’t want slow, and he doesn’t want his stupid fucking knee to get in the way more than it already has, a trashed career, a knee that won’t quit reminding him of that, aching every single day, though not now, or at least, not compared to what he’s gotten used to.

Of course, that’s only true until Hank’s bracketed over Jordan, barely has the chance to enjoy skin on skin, before his knee decides to seize up, because of course it does. Hank can’t have good things.

Except Jordan, mouth wet, dark eyed, a little furrow in his brow as he asks, “You okay?”, that’s —

Hank can sometimes have good things, though maybe not in this exact position.

“My knee,” Hank says.

“Shit, sorry,” Jordan says immediately, then, with the experience of someone who’s definitely had to work around injuries in bed, “On your back? Side? You need it elevated, or—”

“Should be fine on my side,” Hank says, and Jordan’s downright solicitous, helping Hank manoeuvre himself into a position that’s less likely to strain anything. The frantic impulse has faded a little in the meantime — not gone, certainly not gone, but Hank wants to take his time a little, actually explore the body in front of him, lean muscle, maybe leaner than usual, at this point in the season, but powerful — Hank knows just exactly how powerful Jordan’s body is. He’s got three implants in his mouth thanks to the power behind his one-timer.

Jordan hisses through his teeth, a sound you never want to hear from someone in this context.

“Bruise,” Jordan immediately follows up with, and Hank jerks his hand away, finds himself laughing, kind of hysterically, as he drops his forehead against Jordan’s.

“We’re bad at this,” Hank says.

“Nah, we’re just a little beaten up,” Jordan says, index finger under Hank’s chin, nudging it up. “Hey,” he says, when Hank meets his eyes. They’re kind eyes. Hank’s noticed that before, but it’s especially striking right now, crinkling up a little with a smile that hasn’t made it to his mouth, but is written on his face plain as day.

“Hi,” Hank says.

“We just need a little practice,” Jordan says.

“Suggesting we should get some practice in?” Hank asks.

“If you’re still amenable,” Jordan says.

“Amenable,” Hank says, laughing again. “If I’m still fucking _amen_ —”

Jordan cuts him off mid-sentence with a kiss, and Hank generally hates being interrupted, but this time? This time he doesn’t really mind.


End file.
